I’ve gotten very good at pretending.

I can pretend to be happy.

I can pretend to love people.

I can pretend that life doesn’t scare me.

I wear make-up as a mask.

My ceaseless grin is a façade.

I walk with friends and I do well in school

And I pretend that I don’t feel completely alone.

But this kind of pretending is exhausting.

The fake conversation

Swallowing the lump in my throat

Pretending to be someone who I don’t want to be.

So, at three in the morning

When the kitchen light is turned off

And mommy and daddy have fallen asleep

I pull out my journal and my black, wooden pencil

There’s nothing like the cramp in your hand from writing too much.

The naked, hard truth splayed onto sheets of college-ruled paper

Black on white – things I did not know I felt.

But for once, I’m not pretending.

And I let myself cry and I let myself laugh

I let myself feel everything that I’m scared of feeling in the daytime.

When I am writing poetry, I can let myself go

I let myself be me.