*Wild Card Post*
I’ve been doing this a lot lately, but writer’s block is no joke. So here’s another piece I wrote last year:
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I put on my mask every day, shielding my flaws from the world. Anything less than perfection must be covered up. Any breaches in my wall must be sealed shut. This is how it has to be.
If I show even the smallest amount of fear or faltered confidence, I’m considered a failure. People will look at me differently, their faces filled with pity, and—disgust. I won’t be judged fairly, they’ll think I’m weak.
Weak.
The word is cursed. Like it’s some kind of taboo to be weak. To them, strength is all that matters in this world, and all that belongs in it.
So I masquerade myself around, putting up a false front that protects me from convicting eyes. My mind speaks what I tell it to, my voice an instrument, only playing what I want you to hear. I can’t help but notice it feels forged, imitating some fictitious joy, stolen from a defectless person.
I’m tired of this.
I wish I was perfect.
I’ve decided perfection is a corrupted word, tainted by those who claim to live it. I don’t believe it exists—at least not in me. And yet, I crave it. I’m addicted to the false sense of security I want it to bring me. So I pretend it exists, and strive to become perfect.
I keep my secrets locked inside where no one can get to them, my key destroyed by the fire I call my frustration. They torment my mind, always coming back when I don’t want them to. The screams I’m not allowed to share reverberate in my head, showcasing my desperation to the only person that can see inside.
Me.
I wish I was perfect.
My skin feels like porcelain, with countless cracks coating my fragile body. I have to cover them up, no one can see how weak I really am. No one can see the caverns that tear my mind apart. I won’t allow it. So I paint myself with glue, temporarily concealing the cracks until I’m alone. Until I can crawl in my bed with tear stained sheets and cry myself to sleep.
But I have to be strong, I have to be fearless.
I can’t let my insecurities show. I can’t let my faults leak through my false barrier. I always have to be on guard, one mistake could wreak my perfect appearance.
I wish I was perfect.
I keep my distance, because someone might see the rifts that divide my heart if they get too close. I only talk when I have to, and only show what I need to. The things I share are lies my mind weaves from my struggling, broken body. Revealing too much to anyone, could be my downfall.
I wish I was perfect.
I hide my fears behind the mask that suffocates me. I feel trapped, constricted, locked in a cage of my own making. I’m drowning in a sea of false words, forcing a brave face as I go. I’m trying to claw my way out of an unbreakable prison. I’m falling apart in front of their eyes, and they only see the half-hearted smiles and the fabricated laughter.
I can’t breathe.
I’m a disappointment to humanity. I’m a dog that won’t fetch, a plant that won’t grow, a car that won’t start.
I’m a girl that won’t live.
I hide it all, right under their noses, and they don’t even notice. I keep it all to myself because they won’t understand. They can’t understand.
They overlook every aching bone in my body. Every scar that doesn’t show, every wound that doesn’t heal. No one cares enough to find the invisible injuries that torture me from the inside.
My happiness is fake, showing some kind of altered reality. But no one can know. No one can see the imperfections that plague me. No one can know the truth.
If perfection existed, I’d wish I was perfect.
But I know it doesn’t. So I don’t wish, I just stay cocooned inside of myself forever.
But I’m tired of hiding behind a mask. I’m tired of pretending I’m fine.
I’m tired of living a lie.
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-The Splintered Pencil
The Splintered Pencil 