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


civil-rights activists


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


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.




This poem is about: 


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