People think I’m tough. Thick skinned, dry eyed, “she’ll be fine.” I should be happy people have so much faith in me. They think I’m invincible but my heart is starting to feel like an absence
instead of a presence.
And I hardly let myself feel the things I write about and what should be realistic fiction is really fantasy and I wish I could come down from my dreams but there’s nothing left for me at ground zero.
People think I’m tough. I don’t break easy, never did. At least, that’s how it looks. I tell my friends to take risks, be vulnerable, put yourself out there but I don’t practice what I preach and everything in me worth knowing is carefully locked up and I’ve long lost the key.
Maybe one day I’ll get so good at pretending I’m ok, that life will imitate art and I’ll be what they always said I was.