Our act, I may say, is quite a good one. We convince others that we are great - until we aren’t.

Until we’re sitting on the bathroom floor, sobbing, hiccuping, crying and alone.

They wouldn’t understand, we tell ourselves, so don’t try to explain. So we sit in loneliness.

Our act slowly starts to fade, we can’t tell what’s real anymore. We can’t tell if we’re happy or pretending.

Alone, we are. Until we let someone see each shattered piece of us, even the most rotten and wretched secrets and jealousy ridden wants we coveted for long years.

And then maybe we know who we are when nobody is watching, maybe we’ll know ourselves.