some people say i’m outspoken, that i am not afraid to say what i believe. they say i never take credit for what i do, that i refuse to admit what i do is worthwhile. they think the extent of my sin is frustration with annoying siblings, that i don’t know how to yell or swear or want beyond reason. they call me cute, optimistic, funny.
they think modesty is the reason i rarely believe in my talent, that i get along perfectly with everyone in my family, that i adore the girl with liquid eyes to the point of disgust, that no one could dislike me. some days they say what i write and play is expressive, honest, biting. we pretend i’m crazy, play at being unique like it’s a competition worth dying for, that my tastes are special. they pretend they don’t see my faults for my sake, as if they think i want to be perfect, not real.
i wonder what would happen if they were forced to see the truth, the hidden, important moments of each day. what would happen if they knew i only opened my mouth a quarter of the time i have something to say, too terrified to let the rest out. if they knew the arrogance and pride i fight every day and indulge in too often, the ever-present anger that is often seen but constantly under my skin. i wonder what they would say if they knew i was the person who doesn’t need vocal cords to shout, the one who kept up a continual string of swearing and tears for five hours straight with her best friend and who might never know if she was the reason it all fell apart.
would i still be the person they say i am if they knew that i could barely see the optimism that they do? if they knew it was not modesty keeping me humble, but jealousy that usually keeps me fighting to push farther ahead with my talent? would i still be me if they could see that the girl just a third of my age is the reason i try not to leave my bedroom and can’t take the headphones out of my ears? if everyone understood my best friends are the people i am most afraid of being left by? if they knew that when i write my best pieces, they are so “profound” i can’t understand a word of them because they’re too real?
i wonder, if they knew that some days i used to think i really was going mad, would being unique ever be a good thing again? if dying for individuality was a real fear, would it be such a cause for real conversation?
if they knew how predominant ugliness was, would it dim the beautiful parts or enhance them?