Written during another evening spent trying to sound like a person who knows who she is. Have You Seen Me?
𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒
There are days when existing feels like acting. And it’s because I’m terrified of the way I am: raw, confused, trying, isn’t enough overall. That everyone is seeing something I didn’t put on: a mask I didn’t know I was wearing.
I carry an imposter with me in every room I enter. In conversations with family, I wonder if I’m saying what they want to hear. In love, I question whether the softness I give is truly me, or just a mimicry of something I learned secondhand. It’s like I’m renting my place in the world, and any moment now, the real owner will knock on the door and ask me to leave.
Even in the work I pour myself into, I can’t help but feel like I’m producing smoke. Nothing that feeds. Nothing that matters. So I question everything else. Whether my laughter is real, whether my body belongs to me if my memories haven’t rewritten themselves to protect me from something too ugly to remember.
𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒
When people tell me they see me clearly, love me as I am, I don’t know who they’re talking about.
Because I’ve been bracing for the moment someone turns to me and says:
“Wait a minute. You’re not real.”
𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒
If this resonated with you, you might also enjoy the dread level of My Prison of Perception.
