i'm a fraud

i’ve never even said it out loud, but i think i’d hate the sound. Truth is, the way that i am just don’t make me proud. i’m not talking about the version of me that walks with the crowds. i’m talking about the version of me that’s only present in my head, and never gets a chance to speak out loud.


i’m a fake, i’m a fraud; it’s been this way for a while. i feel like it’s blatant, but most people can’t bring themselves to look deeper than a smile. This part of me has been attached since i was just a small child. Imagine being ten years old as thoughts of suicide lurked and compiled.


i can’t even look my best friend in the eyes when we have a conversation. i still think if i shared the thoughts that terrify me, she’d put our friendship under investigation. i think she’d kick me out and lock me out then change the combination. i think and think and think about the bond we spent years building until i’m dizzy with frustration.


She says she’s fascinated by how my mind works. i take it as a compliment like the darkness don’t lurk. Like one way i’ve tried to numb the pain isn’t by ingesting one or two Percs. Like all the voices talking inside doesn’t paralyze and doesn’t hurt. Like i don’t look at the idea of dying and can’t help but smirk.


The people that hand me love think this person in front of them is finally the real me. They hear that i’m making progress and they actually believe. But there’s still so much oppression i make sure that they don’t see. Like how there’s still a small part of my head that’s not completely free. There’s still evil talking that successfully deceives. Still nights where i cry til i can’t see. Nights where i panic til i can’t fucking breathe. Terror filling my entire body til i can’t find sleep.


i still take any shot i can to drown my weak liver with the poison in Grey Goose. i pour up a cup to the brim like it’s not 80 proof. Like if i drink too much my hands won’t recall how to wrap a rope into a noose. Like i don’t start gazing up at the sky and wish i could be there with Zeus. Like i don’t look at how he passed and feel myself admire Juice. Like the way he went out is an acceptable muse.


i still can’t trust. i still think a taste of love isn’t love it’s just lust. i beg myself to give in and just trust. Another part sways me to let the rain hit the chains of my accords and let them just rust. Let them just dissolve to dust. Human contact is needed for sanity; they say it’s essential, a need, a must. But when i’m around others for too long my happy thoughts quickly adjust.


The voices suddenly shift and start telling me to look at their life and then compare it to mine. Like look at the way they handle life just fine. Look at how eager they are to consume the bread and the wine. Look at the way right and wrong for them is such a clear line. i envy the way they float through a life so divine. Knowing they can’t relate to my ways causes distress to creep up my spine. They have one voice in their head, and i’m dealing with nine. They’re basking in the present as i’m absent in rewind. i go to bed with my hands in a bind. At night, they close their eyes without worrying about what they’ll find. They really mean it when they say that they’re fine. i can’t share authentic thoughts that i have in my mind.


i can’t believe a lot of things in my life are still true. i can’t believe the people in my circle haven’t cut me out and found someone new. i can’t believe my friends still say, ‘It’s so good to see you!’ Like i didn’t forget about them completely when i was living life blue. Like half our friendship wasn’t built on statements untrue. Like i’m a healthy person that doesn’t skip meals. Like i didn’t spend five grand on tattoos just for something to feel.


i start evaluating to find a reason as to why they still love me. i feel like they’re escalating to a place far above me. i reassure them that my mind is actually okay. i know each time that i lie a part of my soul decays. i tell them i’m on a clear path with organized plans. But i’m longing for the haze of the occasion Xan. i tell them i’m better now like i’ve fully recovered. Still, half the thoughts i have i wish i’d never discovered.


i don’t have an answer as to why i can’t stay happy for longer than a week. i know in the darkest part of my heart a section of my soul will always be weak. i feel like a fraud when i hear the applause for the feelings that i speak. i’m not trying to teach. i’m not trying to preach. All i’ve done is typed sad sentences in paragraphs and self-labeled it art. Understand each time i open up, a little section of my mind falls apart. When i reread that sentence, i felt something break inside my heart.


i don’t know what i’m doing here. i’m honestly so confused. It’s kinda strange that my most fucked up thoughts are the only part of me getting amused. My darkest voices are getting the most attention. Like what i’m saying are things that are ok to mention. Like what i’m saying can’t cause a person any stress and mental tension. i’m not sure if what i’m doing is wrong or right. But I had this one voice in my head that said i could escape for a minute or two if i sit down and write.


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