Perhaps,
I’ve always been right.
Somewhere. Some place.
My soul has whispered this:
I’m just a fake.
A pretence.
It’s all just a performance
to fit into all society labels.
Right—
A coat of white and black—cliché, right?
But forgetting,
there are always shades of gray.
Where things outside the box of what’s called “right”
don’t always seem so wrong.
A bearer of quiet light would agree.
So I let that settle in.
I act on impulse.
I seek help—but find none.
So I bend. Twist. To fit their gaze.
And behind those locked doors…
I give in.
I numb my way
out of feeling too much
and just never enough
for a world suffused with shattered glasses.
Afterwards…
I lie still.
Let the not-so-strangers come.
Guilt and regret drape my neck
like rocks tied to a chain,
pressing the air from my lungs,
as every breath inhaled—a battle.
Little liquid.
Little sobs.
My face wields them all.
Torn from inside out.
But it stays hidden.
“A glimpse behind the mask—what we show versus what we feel.”
