no. 57 // the performer

I am a performer.

They do not know it, but every day when I wake up and roll out of bed, my mind has already wandered in a thousand different directions and filtered through various scenarios of how I should present myself. I feel watched, judged, and perceived through everything but a lens of love.

I tell myself I am truly me when they are around, but I know this is a lie.

It may not be a drastic change, but their steely glances are enough to warrant me keeping my lips sealed tighter, my actions more refined. I cannot speak freely. I cannot move without care. I cannot dance with all the emotion and freedom and passion that my mind knows and ponders. I am unintentionally shoved into a mold and held back by the reins of their restrictive words.

I only fit because I want their approval.

I was not made for that.

I seek a joy among the pain, a light among the darkness. I will dance around with no inhibition when they are not here, for they do not understand the creativity, the purpose in becoming a character for a moment and experiencing some facet of life you would otherwise not know.

It is a push and pull between who they want to see and who I am. The moment their reins slack, I stretch farther to try and escape their bondage. If only they could see the bruises the mold has left on me. If only they could feel the scars that develop from the reins being pulled tight.

I am a performer.

And the performance will be my demise.

// December 17, 2018

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