The clothes I wear make me feel like I’m acting. Accompanied by a smile that tells no fewer lies. They only ever asked how I felt, not what or who I felt like. But why should they. I always imagined everyone to feel just as uncomfortable. Yet I don’t see it in every pair of eyes I share a glance with across the street, in the class room, in my home. Some but not all. When I talk I don’t recognise her voice, sometimes her words sound foreign to me. People still laugh, smile, nod, they must understand her better than I do. I had a childish confidence once. Now I can only pretend to have retained it, with great effort. When I can’t keep it up they think of me as rude. My eyes can’t meet with theirs, it hurts to return their prying glances. What they see, the person they hear, that isn’t me. She wraps her arms around me and locks me tight in her embrace. She takes my place when my head and my heart can’t stand to be surrounded by people. She is the impression I present when I’m at my best. At night I hold her close and let her sleep, her cheek at my chest. Only we know the naked honesty behind the mask. I don’t mean to hide from the world. But there’s an impenetrable wall in my mind. The door to which was sealed by my own traitorous hand when the little girl said goodbye.
I fancied a bit of an uncensored mind exposure today, although it’s not to be taken too seriously. This is a site for creative writing after all.