The truth? The truth is that someone asking for truth isn’t likely to find it here. The outside has never matched the inside; or if it has, it’s been a rare, fleeting occurrence, concurrent with drunken lushness, a full red mouth, and mussed wild hair. I’ve always been more feral than I appear. So much less prim and proper, inner self defined by the mousy carriage, the sensible set of jaw, the sensitive imploring eyes.
It’s been a long quest to make the outsides match. I want comfy black yoga pants instead of ridiculous yellow pajamas studded with rainbow deers. I wear what comes my way because I am not picky–but is it such a crime to want to look the way I feel?
The person I look like doesn’t write the things I need to say. She can’t talk about the abuse and horrors she’s suffered; sometimes she doesn’t even think they were real. Or that she’s real. She thinks everything she loves and cares about may be some sort of construct. She’s afraid that she’ll die near constantly, but she doesn’t ever think it’ll actually happen. Her death is a room in a haunted house, a scene in a horror flick. A frightening possibility, but a remote one. One meant to scare.
The person I look like is afraid of what others might think of her insides. Her black lips and colored hair. Her odd clothing, the shit that she writes. “Who do you think you are?” Has never been able to be met with “Fuck you. Whoever I want to be.” She’s afraid they’ll think she’s a fraud. She thinks she might be a fraud, so there’s that. Who’ll believe if she doesn’t?
Her friends don’t believe, do they? Not anymore. She pushes them all away, and the thought scares her and doesn’t. Sometimes she finds it satisfying, bares her teeth and licks her paws. Sometimes she likes it (and that’s the scariest part of all).