They see the face,
the cheeks,
the black wings above my eyes,
the smudged red lipstick
and graphite on my chin.

They see who I am
on stage,
every monologue performed,
every perfected scene,
every bow when the curtain closes.

But the curtain never closes in my ever cluttered mind.

This is who I am on the outside.

They don't know
how my mind warps
and contorts
into a black nothingness.
How my obsessive thoughts
consume me entirely.
I am my struggle,
I am every tear shed,
every fake smile, every coy response,
steadily winning,
slowly losing.

Hell, I don't even know who I am.