A Confession of an Unreal Person
I hate that I’m not genuine, but if I don’t tug up the sides of my cheeks, I’ll just sit there, silent and dead. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I accept that I’m a corny person? Fake, exaggerated, theatrical, they tell me. Tell me again, because I forgot the mask was there and beneath is the furious black bear from my youth. The beast that starved, cut, and burnt itself. Drank too much and never asked for help. I’ve thrown a napkin over the hibernating face, but when the snow melts will the façade stay in place?
And, this smile, you see is nothing more than an illusion of me. An illusion of someone who cares, who loves. And this heart is munted, so I distract you with my flashing teeth but by the time we’re finished, I’ll have bitten off your hand. I’m losing myself in this smile.
And I can’t remember the last time I was real. I’m a clone of ideals. No beating heart here. No breath to be found. I’m a lunatic, living as a performing clown until the knife comes down on my balloon animal heart. Pop! It will go and nothing will remain. No blood there. Nothing but air. I’m not real, I’m not real. I’m fake, I’m a fake person. A babushka doll rattling, all the heads are cracking, but when you’ve opened me up what can you see?