I sneak into myself like a thief,
I watch my thoughts hiding in dark corners
and I tell myself, again, that I’m not allowed.
Not yet.
Not enough.
Not like the others.
I wear a mask, carefully glued over my real face,
and smile wide, teeth clenched,
so no one sees that I question myself
even when I’m being applauded.
Especially then.
I write my texts with my heart stuck in my throat,
my letters trembling like lost children in a train station,
but then I send them into the world
and hide.
I’m afraid someone will come and say:
“You’re not what you seem.
You don’t deserve what you have.
Not you.”
But among all the voices pulling me back,
I start to hear, faintly,
my own.
Fragile, hoarse, but alive:
“You are!
You’ve always been!
You didn’t sneak in through the back door!
You broke it down!”
I take my heart in my hands,
hold it like a wounded bird,
and choose to believe in it
more than in the whispers
choking my throat.
The impostor lives in me, yes!
But she no longer covers my eyes.
She no longer stifles my mouth.
She’s still there;
a shadow, an old wound,
an echo that no longer scares me.
I feel her when I breathe.
When I look in the mirror,
when I receive love
with clenched fists.
She no longer holds the steering wheel.
But she doesn’t stay silent.
She clings to my ribs,
builds a nest in my nerves,
and waits for any mistake
like waiting for hotcakes.
Sometimes she grabs my ankle
when I try to climb,
ties my words
into tangled threads,
and tells me I’ve pulled the wrong one.
I hear her steps inside me.
She’s a coat that no longer fits,
but still sometimes clings to my skin,
and wants to wear me.
But I keep walking.
Limping, yes.
With knees scraped
from all the times I tried to be someone else.
I see.
Shakily.
With eyes turned inward.
But I see.
And I carry myself as I am:
with wounds exposed,
raw words,
unpolished, unsolicited,
feet marked by effort,
fear in one hand and truth in the other.
And maybe that’s my only imposture:
to be who I am
and still believe, sometimes,
that I’m not allowed to be.
