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.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 10:41 AM UTC
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.
22 October 2013. Pre-inpatient angst. my work will get happier, I promise!
