
Truth of Selves
We all have the version of ourselves--
that one that we broadcast
and tell the world is real
even to the point we believe it ourselves.
Perfection is a construct
yet we still strive
for a version of ourselves
that beats out the rest.
We can all be
feminists
civil-rights activists
allies
fighting for marriage equality--
especially if it looks good
on a college application--
and still not know shit...
about anything at all.
There is no single soul
capable of escape.
This is our fate.
I live a life on stage
where blinding light
lets me hide in the face
of someone else,
lets me hide in the feelings
of someone new.
All the while I feign
happiness
and pretend I actually like you.
But as I step off stage
and back into reality
my armour loses its luster
my face loses its smile
my walk loses its bounce.
I don’t know what I stand for
if I stand for
anything at all.
Because sometimes standing
means sitting
and sometimes leaning.
And school
never taught the difference.
Life is confusing
no matter the lens.
And self-hatred
seems inevitable.
I, like everybody,
pretend that I’ve got it
(on the outside).
Yet I, like everybody,
(on the inside)
know absolutely nothing.
In the end
I am like the rest.
I am a person.
I have feelings
(that like to play with swords)
I have thoughts.
I have words.
The only difference is me.
And honestly?
It depends on the day.