The authentic persona..!

In large crowds, I shrink back, but in small groups,

I swell out.

My voice comes out my mouth in a shriek.

The laughter comes loud and nearly honest.

I learned sarcasm well, speak it like a second tongue.

I am rude instinctively.

I insult the ones I envy. Show me a pretty girl,

an articulate speaker, a gifted writer worst of all,

and I will react to them with violence disguised as harmless banter.

I am a special kind of arrogant in that I manage equal amounts

of ego and self-loathing.

Though I’m told neither show.

That objectively, I resemble only a small,

dark girl with a thousand fleeting personalities,

none especially ugly.

None especially mesmerising.

This is all in person.

When I am forced to take the stage.

When I push myself into the spotlight

without having learned my lines. Apparently,

I stumble through the motions believably enough.

No one suspects the girl with the quick wit

and the bright eyes is a character.

How I pull her skin on like a costume.

Only it fits too small. Only the loneliness squeezes out the sleeves.

Only sometimes, the sadness is ribboned in my hair.

It’s easy to ignore, though.

If I am smart enough,

if I speak fast enough not to leave time for anyone to comment.

In writing, though – if I’m caught between computer screens

or envelopes boasting first class stamps

– then it’s all truth. Worse than that, it’s all blood.

There’s nowhere to hide in writing.

Either I must articulate myself precisely or I cannot do it at all.

Why?

Because I can’t laugh in writing.

Can’t avert my eyes. Can’t shrug anything off.

Can’t do any of the things that might normally distract an audience.

Can’t divert their attention.

And so, in writing, they tell me I’m someone else.

Tell me I create a character and talk through her.

This couldn’t be further from the truth.

I have a dozen characters up my sleeves,

and can switch from one to another at will.

Sometimes against my will. Sometimes the change is automatic,

something I’ve no control over, and I can feel another person,

as if a shadow, swallowing the one that stood there before.

I change like this all the time. Have never been fewer

than eight people in one day.

Don’t trust any of them.

Don’t like most of them either.

But if there is one I don’t mind returning to,

it’s the writer. And it’s the writer because it’s in her

that I feel most aligned with myself.

It’s in her that I can safely say: yes,

this is who I am. And also, this is who I want to be.