Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mariana May 2018
I am not a book
I am not a poster
I am not someone you can read
I am not someone who shows her emotions.

I have a constant battle in me
I have a voice in my head saying “You got this!”
I have another voice saying “You’re worthless!”
I have a tornado of emotions that will not stop spinning.

You have seen me
You have heard me but
You have never known me.

I hide in dark corners
I hide from you
I hide from them
I hide from myself.

What am I afraid of?

The truth
The love
The pain
The judgment
Or maybe all of it.

With truth comes judgment and
With love comes pain.
So I hide

I bury everything
I bury sadness
I bury happiness
I bury loneliness
I bury anger
I bury joy.

But when it gets to be too much it bursts.

Everything and anything that stands in the way of that explosion gets demolished

My relationships
My friendships
My mind.

I am a broken person
I am a ticking time bomb
I am not a book.
Gabriel Aug 2020
Copy yourself,

make something other

a binary you,

in a world

of starships and code

and the fact that death

doesn’t really mean anything here.

Right here,

we don’t need

oxygen or food,

in this world

of falsity and fantasy

and the sweetness of hallucination

that aches behind your body.
Stand still,

headset firmly on

and breaths calm,

a new world
awaits your better self

where you forget the depersonalisation

of still always being human.

Copy that,

you’re the captain

of false starships,

hurtling through uncertainty

with virtual reality comforting

you when you realise that

you’ll never be like this.

Another you,

version fifty-three

in a chain,

never changing yourself

or becoming something better

only sticking in mistakes

and pretending like it’s improvement.

Copy yourself,

make another other

for another self,

forget your body

and transmit human signals

to other fake-people

who tell themselves aching stories

of a reality

that we daren’t change.
Something I wrote for a creative writing portfolio in first year of university.
Gabriel Aug 2020
Soft skin, marred,

jagged cheekbones

cutting into blank white;

suffocating plastic sweats

against the mouth of the thing.

A moth-swarm of faces,

of sickly hospital white

plastic; mouths gasping

for air and everyone drinking spirits

like the world is about to end.

The façade of a masquerade,

pearl whites with jagged oysters

creaking underneath, all botox

and sloppily revisited youth;

death is passed as a disease.

One within, too prideful

for a mask, yet pale faced

enough to spend the night

in the quagmire and relive
the quicksand underfoot forever.

Hard, wrinkled women

ruining themselves,

asphyxiating slowly in the crushing

pressure of plastic on sweat on skin

right down to the bone.

Still, the white-wind, bare, ghost

lingers in the after-party,
picking up the discarded masks

with smooth, youthful fingers;

resignedly exhaling down into sinking earth.
Something I wrote for a creative writing portfolio in first year of university.
Cody Haag Apr 2020
A smile is on my lips,
While a hole is in my soul;
I'll laugh for the moment,
But cry when I'm alone.

My mask is perfect,
Deceiving all who see.
They think I am content,
Cannot hear my silent plea.

If I am hurting,
You will never know.
My mask is unwavering,
Blow after blow.
Zack Ripley Apr 2020
Today, I know what it's like
To be a Russian nesting doll.
Putting a mask over my mask
That masks how I'm really feeling inside.
But you know what?
They're not all bad.
Masks can be beautiful.
And remember, at the end of the day,
You're still you underneath it all.
Dante Sep 2019
The compass inside me has always been fragile, broken. Do you know what happens to a child with no direction? They wear your face. I knew the grownups didn’t love me the way I was. I’ve never been loved. Not when I wore my own face.
Dante Sep 2019
She told me, “I think you think this”
and I said, “I don’t.”
and then I said, “I know why I thought that.”
and I thought, “I only said I thought that because I knew she thought I did.”
I thought, “I did my best to never let myself think that.”
I thought, “I’m not interested in thinking about this anymore. I’m tired. I’m just so scared of this. Always so scared.”
I thought, “I’ve done what I understood was expected of me in order to be loved. It used to be the only way I could communicate with others.”
I thought, “I want nothing more than the thrill of experiencing myself.
I thought, “I want nothing more than to be as genuine as I can be. I wish I could fix it now. I wish I could give myself to people. I wish I could be bare today.
“But I think,” I thought, “I think that will have to wait.”
"You can join our group," he says,
"But only if you look everyone in the eyes."
I freeze.
Surely he is aware by now that the words
Autism Spectrum Disorder
In my chart were not placed there for fun?
Surely he is aware by now that finger twitching, body rocking,
     gaze avoiding
Are not for my frivolous pleasure?
Surely he is aware by now the absurdity of what he asks?
I am autistic.
Burning irritation of the eyes and panic aside,
Staring creepily into another human's eyeballs
Would render group a waste of time, no possibility to listen.
He knows this.
It is his prejudice that keeps him rooted to the spot.
I can feel the weight of his expectations boring into my forehead.
Explaining what it is to ask this of me,
I remind him that drawing this line would be excluding me because
Of my autism.
I tell him he would be losing a valuable participant,
A deep thinker, a creator, an avid listener.
I tell him he would be discriminating,
That I am protected by law.
Oh, no.
He budges not,
For he does not dislike autistic humans
So long as they act like they are Neurotypical,
So long as I pretend to be
Someone I am not.
Dante Jul 2019
I don’t know where to put this pain. It feels like an injustice that I can only hold it in my hands, a little puddle I pour to the earth, until the next one forms again.
It feels like an injustice too, what’s happened. I was willing to sing myself to you, all bare and defenseless, but could not undo the ritual I had been taught to perform since I was a baby. I couldn’t do it in time.
That awful ritual- the one where I held up a mask to my face and said, “Here I am, it’s me. Someone like you, a face you’ll not scorn.”
Next page