The monsters I hide during the day slither free under moonlight. Sometimes they’re silent for a while; other times, they’re ripping at me before the sun has fully disappeared.
Still, I hold it together. Because God forbid I ruin my perfectly imperfect image.
It’s like a jagged rock pressing on my chest, crushing my lungs, pressing my heart into shards that cut with every beat.
And yet I carry on.
Every day, I tuck away the messy, broken parts of me that no one should see. The real me lives only in the shadows.
My bad side isn’t beautiful.
It doesn’t belong anywhere, not in the worthy category, not in the unworthy category, not in any category.
Because no matter where it gets revealed, people will look at me weirdly.
So, I carry it in the night, letting it breathe in private, because if I let it slowly grow without an output, the illusion of Tilly would crumble.
It’s almost funny, the way I let a tiny bit of my bad self slip through — just enough to look normal. Like I’m not perfect.
I’ve learned how to calibrate it, like a science experiment. I know I can’t be perfect, but I’m terrified of being too imperfect.
So I rationalize my flaws. I control how much of me leaks out so it’s the “right” amount — not the kind of imperfection parents whisper about behind closed doors, not the kind that goes around small towns. Just enough to seem human.
It’s a strange kind of prison to live like this.
Night after night, I pull myself apart, and day after day, I stitch myself back together.
I’ve become a ghost in my own life, haunting my reflection, wearing a body that isn’t really mine.
Right now is the perfect example of my nightly routine.
I just tore myself apart, making sure to rip up every tiny piece, and now I’m scrolling through millions of videos of people who made it.
Not really, but I let myself believe they did.
I don’t want to be scrolling right now. I don’t want to cause the dark circles under my eyes every morning to turn even darker, but I know if I close my eyes, sleep won’t come.
I could do what my mom always told me — think about the good things, count blessings, picture the future — but the darkness always wins.
The good things feel like cheap wallpaper over rotting walls. They’re fake.
Ialwaysknow they’re fake.
Because I lie. Because I am a liar.
I am a betrayer.
I make people feel better by handing them pieces of myself I’ll never get back.
Pieces I need.
I bleed quietly so they can feel whole.
That’s the truth, and the truth hurts.
Which is why I never,evershow it.
I roll over, pulling the sheets up around me like armor. Tomorrow’s tournament looms in my mind.
