When I am happy and when I am ok, I will look you in the eye. A spark with catch and our smiles will spread.
When I am scared and lonely and hurt, upset and afraid I will have dead eyes. There is no spark for me, let alone enough left over for you.
I can pretend though. It’s been my whole life. Pretending. And I get so convincing that I can tell myself anything and even I almost believe it.
Is it easier to lie to yourself? How have the stories I told myself as a little girl morphed into the construct of who I am, or not even that, because I don’t even know who I am, truth nor lies, because I used to at least think about it. Now I don’t. Now I can’t be.
Now I can’t know.
"There are beautiful moments still out there."
They tell me that, and I believe it sometimes. Those days with the spark in my eye.
"I’ve learned to find myself in what I am, not what I can do." I wish I knew what I am.
But I only know what I can do.
And not even that becuase every day I need to prove to myself that I can do it.
And in the same way, and in the same caliber.
But there are days when it’s too much and I have to push everything away. And just pretend there’s a spark.
"Does that mean I’m fake, or does that mean I’m trying."