They say I am too much,
too grand in my gestures,
too slick with shine,
as if my smile is lacquered on like paint over rot.
As if my joy was tearing at the seams.
They accuse —pretender, actress,
But I know this:
I have never been more true than when I am lit from the front,
an audience of eyes like planets orbiting around me.
They say, dance like nobody is watching,
I say, dance like everyone is.
When I was a girl, I was rejected and discarded from the armies I longed to fight for,
so, I learned who I had to be to become loved.
In my bedroom,
I conjured applause from my turquoise wall paint,
my vanity was the stage manager,
my bedroom was the theater.
Even in complete solitude,
I lived as if I had spectators.
When I turn the page of my book on the beach,
I imagine the lens framing me,
with salty hair and a mysterious allure.
Always, I am seen,
even if only through my own dreaming eye.
With a proper audience I ignite.
I am the flint to their fire,
the flames to their sun.
Their approval pulses through me,
and their disapproval twists my sour stomach into a knot.
I shift and change my skin like it’s my religion,
I’m devoted.
I am the person who holds the key to unlock a shy girl’s throat, who knows how to draw out the echo stuck in her mouth.
I am, simultaneously, the person who can lie belly-up,
I’m a frog in biology class, waiting to be sliced open by careless crowds that curiosity got the best of.
Yes, I do morph.
Yes, I do echo.
But this echo is undoubtedly mine.
There is a core,
it’s a coiled wire inside me that won’t bend.
I am a mirror, yes—
but I’ll crack and splinter if something causes dissonance.
Just be yourself,
my most loyal observers chirp,
and to them I nod.
They don’t know that this is me.
This is me, like light is only light when refracted.
This is me, like water, only ripples when disturbed.
They mistake my performance for artifice
and ignore that I’ve built a cathedral of mimicry.
In this church, we value connection,
and to connect with an audience, you must understand them and speak to them in their language.
So, if I am built by my surroundings… who am I?
I am a scrapbook, each piece chosen carefully and glued down with purpose.
I am a quilt with stitches from every group of people in a room I walk into.
I am a mirror reflecting what I see in you, and what I feel you need to see in me.
And I have never been more myself than when I am becoming.
Photo by Felipe Castilla on Unsplash
