I go through days
acting like I'm not just clinging
on to the skin
of the earth as it spins,
like it isn't going to slip from my grasp
and I won't be left gasping for breath
in the vast empty expanse.
As if my fingernails aren't clutching,
at the last scraps of ground trying
to get some purchase
as it dances, tumbling around.
Acting like I'm not just waiting
for the walls to collapse,
the earth to prolapse
and leave me
falling deep into the cracks.
I go through days acting.
I play pretend
that I have any idea
of what things mean,
or even what was said,
I go over it all again
as I'm lying awake in bed.
Trying to connect
the worn-down threads
like I actually know what I'm doing
and I'm not just a leaf blowing
on the heavy winds
that swirl through
my mostly empty head.
I stumble my lines,
I fumble my script.
I trip over invisible props,
and miss more cues
than I could ever hope to hit.
I wear my heart on the page,
but my face doesn't change.
You barely see the strain,
when I'm torturing myself
again, and again. I just keep it within,
hidden behind a veil of skin.
I go through days acting
as if I have a clue,
like I know what to do,
how to do it, and more importantly
like I've got the tools.
When in truth, I am winging it,
like a bird singing its songs,
I just amble along
as the weight crushes
down on me, the gravity pulling
like a tide on a sea.
I just keep acting like I have a clue,
when the reality is
I'm still just learning how to be me.
Thanks for reading
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