“I’m just confused.” You say.
“About?” Is all I volley with, throat still clogged with tears.
“Your writing, I feel like I know you, then suddenly I feel like I don’t know a whole part of you.”
How do you think I feel, Love? I thought you only had pretty words for me, then surprise, and your doubt, fear, lies, love, are all exposed for the world to see. My faults and yours for everyone else. Our relationship falling apart as your fame grows greater. Pain gets reads.
“I don’t know where it comes from.” I say.
“It’s like I put my pen to paper and it pours out.” I continue.
Your brow furrows, digging for something more.
“It’s not even just that, It’s how you act around people it’s different with everyone. I don’t know if you’re real with me.”
I don’t either, I think as the tears spring forward faster. I’m frantically searching for a shade of me to hold onto, one I like. It’s hard to find, personas slipping through fingers like sand.
“I just…” I trail, hoping for an interruption, but you wait.
“I’m a people-pleaser; I know what makes them feel good. I can read them well, I can understand their wants, so to ease some pain, I’ll be what they need.”
The fullest, noisiest silence.
Am I real? I thought so, with you, yes. With others? No. My parents need a good girl, who loves them like a child. My roommate needs someone to bitch with her, bend to her will, be her punching bag. Your roommates need a girl with balls, someone to shoot shit like they do. Someone to ignore sexism, and racism, hate speeches, and penis jokes. My school friends need a quirky weird girl who’ll never say no. My teachers need a hard-worker. My boss needs more availability.
I need quiet. I need love. I need to find myself in a maze of personas. Each only slightly different. Then I realize, I’m me already. I don’t need to find myself, I’m here waiting, I just need room to grow. RoomToBreathe. So I light a match, set fire to the maze, and watch as all the lies go up in flames.
Copyright 2010 by Lauren E. Dow