I often feel inadequate —
Like I am constantly yearning but never becoming.
I often wonder if I will ever be enough,
If anything I ever do will ever be enough.

I try so desperately to pretend that I am,
For I find it unbearably humiliating that I am not.
And like lasers carving their path through my skin,
I feel their expectant eyes —
Eyes that burn with silent judgment.

I read the words within their gaze —
A book authored by my own anxiety.
And I find that I must pretend,
Or else the words become snakes beneath my skin —
Silently devouring me from the inside out.

So I pretend. I pretend. I pretend.
And my pretense is mistaken for a beauty it is not —
The beauty of strength,
Of resilience,
Of ambition.

But the critical truth —
The one I guard with my life —
Is far uglier than they could ever imagine.

The truth is: I revel in the misunderstanding.
The truth is: I have no desire to be.
For I cannot define what be means for me.