Date:
June 7, 2025
Category:
Unwritten & Understood
Author’s Note:
Some people don’t lie on purpose.
They lie because honesty is costly—
and pretending feels safer when the truth has never been welcome.
This piece is for those performing perfection because imperfection has never been permitted.
Behind the Mask
5:30 AM: Alarm goes off, but you’re already awake.
You grab your phone to scroll. What does normal look like today?
Every thumbs up is a signal of approval. Not the persona you want to be,
but the performance you hope they will all see.
Show and tell begins at the crack of dawn,
influencing the mask you put on.
Those who want to stay above reproach don’t permit themselves to feel;
it’s someone else’s identity that they must steal.
On the outside, you’re pressed and polished—
only wrinkled in your soul.
But that’s the part that you can hide behind your role.
It’s a question you wonder but would never dare ask:
If they could see past the flesh and into your veins, which ones would stay?
You know deep down there aren’t many.
And instead of loving yourself, you always choose them.
7:00 AM: You show up looking like a dream,
but on the inside, who you are screams.
You greet and you smile, trying hard to conceal anything real.
You feel so much on the inside that you refuse to share
because performance is what you think makes others care.
12:00 PM: Exhaustion sets in.
Lunch behind closed doors for refueling.
The energy it costs to deny the truth is grueling.
Afternoons are made for encores.
A minty ribbon to disguise your breath.
A brief smile because you remember where it came from.
A breath of fresh air reminds you that you’ll never be the same.
As soon as you remember, you force yourself to let it slip through the folds of memory.
Duty calls (ring, ring).
The feeling of anything authentically affected will cause the line to be disconnected.
You lie to yourself; you lie to them.
In the prison of your life, there is no room for fallible feelings.
No—acting responsibly isn’t enough.
You must sew up the scenes behind your rib cage
because a curated persona can only live if you kill what’s inside.
You know you won’t be loved for doing the right thing.
You’ll be shot for even owning just a tiny bit of yourself.
And because that’s what’s expected, you put your emotions on the shelf.
Consequently, you punish your identity.
You put the truth in the hands that were never meant to hold it.
Control dressed in pain took the reins.
You traded dignity, respect, and your emotional safety just to survive.
That’s what happens when you play a game of shame to fit in.
The opinions of others play so loudly that you never get a voice.
You stayed silent while a desire for power, disguised as protection, laid you bare—and never cared.
It was rage, not heartbreak, that filled the line.
And through the noisy anger, not one tear made a sound.
In that moment, tenderness sat down while perfection put on her crown.
