Full-time Fake

Slowly killing myself each day to be the person I thought everyone wanted me to be. Now I feel as shallow as my grave. The one my persona dug. And I worry that when I look at the camera, people can see it. The old me I killed. That hides just beneath the surface, underneath what was supposed to be a temporary act, not a permanent play.

My grave. My obituary never saw the light of day.

And I fear the only one who grieved, was me.

It’s said people have a devil and an angel on their shoulder. If so, I’ve been cheated. All I have is a prison warden and an escape artist. A conformist and a revolutionary. And I am stuck in-between.

I’m neither one or the other. I am both and none. I don’t know what to make of myself. No one knows what to make of me either. I am stranded, alone, in a repeating battle.