They said, pick one mask.
Not the strange one.
Not the loud one.
Not the soft, trembling one
that cries at commercials
and laughs at funerals.
So I tried on the versions of me
hanging like uniforms
in a thrift store of expectations.
This one is cool—
it comes with ripped jeans,
practiced eye-rolls,
a playlist of songs I don’t even like.
This one is pretty—
it comes with smaller bites,
smaller words,
smaller dreams.
This one is strong—
it comes with clenched fists,
swallowed feelings,
a spine made of steel
and rust.
I walk the halls in borrowed skin,
rehearsing lines
someone else wrote for me.
“People like us don’t do that.”
“People like you shouldn’t say that.”
“People like you are supposed to…”
Their sentences are cages,
and I keep decorating the bars
like that makes it freedom.
I laugh when they laugh,
choke when they cheer.
Every compliment feels like
a nail through my palm—
“Now you’re finally getting it.”
Getting what?
The more I fit in,
the less I recognize
the echo of my own thoughts.
I scroll past my reflection
in the black glass of my screen
and don’t stop.
I have become a rumor
about myself—
whispered in hashtags,
tagged in roles I never auditioned for.
They clap for the stereotype
wearing my face,
but no one knows
the understudy who stayed home.
Some nights I peel off
the day’s costume
and there is nothing underneath
but silence—
raw, shivering silence
where a person should be.
I traded my voice
for belonging,
and all I got was
a chorus of strangers
speaking through my mouth.
How do you escape
from a prison
you helped to build?
How do you confess
you’ve been missing
while standing
right in front of everyone?
I lie awake and rehearse
a different kind of courage—
not louder,
not prettier,
not stronger—
just real.
One day I will walk outside
wearing only
what I actually feel.
They will call it weird,
too much,
not enough.
And for the first time,
their words will bruise
but not define me.
I will meet my own eyes
in the mirror
and know:
this is not the version
they ordered.
This is the person
I refused to lose
to make them comfortable.
If that makes me
the wrong kind of
everything—
so be it.
At least at last
I’m mine.
Mar 18
Mar 18, 2026 at 2:33 PM UTC
They said, pick one mask.
Not the strange one.
Not the loud one.
Not the soft, trembling one
that cries at commercials
and laughs at funerals.
So I tried on the versions of me
hanging like uniforms
in a thrift store of expectations.
This one is cool—
it comes with ripped jeans,
practiced eye-rolls,
a playlist of songs I don’t even like.
This one is pretty—
it comes with smaller bites,
smaller words,
smaller dreams.
This one is strong—
it comes with clenched fists,
swallowed feelings,
a spine made of steel
and rust.
I walk the halls in borrowed skin,
rehearsing lines
someone else wrote for me.
“People like us don’t do that.”
“People like you shouldn’t say that.”
“People like you are supposed to…”
Their sentences are cages,
and I keep decorating the bars
like that makes it freedom.
I laugh when they laugh,
choke when they cheer.
Every compliment feels like
a nail through my palm—
“Now you’re finally getting it.”
Getting what?
The more I fit in,
the less I recognize
the echo of my own thoughts.
I scroll past my reflection
in the black glass of my screen
and don’t stop.
I have become a rumor
about myself—
whispered in hashtags,
tagged in roles I never auditioned for.
They clap for the stereotype
wearing my face,
but no one knows
the understudy who stayed home.
Some nights I peel off
the day’s costume
and there is nothing underneath
but silence—
raw, shivering silence
where a person should be.
I traded my voice
for belonging,
and all I got was
a chorus of strangers
speaking through my mouth.
How do you escape
from a prison
you helped to build?
How do you confess
you’ve been missing
while standing
right in front of everyone?
I lie awake and rehearse
a different kind of courage—
not louder,
not prettier,
not stronger—
just real.
One day I will walk outside
wearing only
what I actually feel.
They will call it weird,
too much,
not enough.
And for the first time,
their words will bruise
but not define me.
I will meet my own eyes
in the mirror
and know:
this is not the version
they ordered.
This is the person
I refused to lose
to make them comfortable.
If that makes me
the wrong kind of
everything—
so be it.
At least at last
I’m mine.
This poem comes from the pressure to shrink yourself until you fit into labels other people choose. It explores how stereotypes can feel like costumes that slowly replace the real you, and the risky decision to be authentic even if it means being seen as “wrong.”
