“I can’t decide what part to play. To be the clown or the poet. To be the one that makes you laugh or the one that brings you down. Too often I feel like I want to play one of two faces, never knowing which one will give me the approval I search for. I fear being thought as too serious, or conversely too laughable, almost silly. I’ve always been adaptable when spending time with people that have vastly different personalities than me. I can lose myself in playing someone else for you, it’s an act of holding my breath until I know I haven’t been thought of as anything other than how I want. At parties I raise my voice to match your excitement so you don’t think I’m too quiet. In bedrooms ill put sweaters on as pants so that you know I can make you laugh. In silence, I won’t say words when I could, because I know you just need me there. On the street I won’t look at you in the eyes because I’m afraid you’ll read me. 

One time, she told me I give away too much. I was standing in the hall as she walked away from me. “what do you mean” I asked. “You give too much away to people, you don’t save anything.” She said as if it was something I already should’ve understood. I didn’t know how to carry on the conversation nor did I feel as if I could. No matter how I’d present myself to others I was apparently too thin and her comment made it hard for me to believe that Iw as being anything else but too transparent. That my emotions, the way I spoke, how I dreamed aloud or the things I wanted to be honest about were objects too large to hold in two hands, too loud to fit into rooms and too much of me to relate to. That somewhere in the secrecy of one’s emotions lies a more redeemable personality. To not let others understand you as much as you want to be understood was attractive. The anticipation of knowing someone was better than seeing them as a whole. 

To be told you are too open for your own good is hard. It’s a refusal. It’s a form of assistance that is masked by good intentions but is only an uncomfortable reaction to the things that make us human. My sincerity was too close to what others felt but chose to be silent about. It made me think of all the ways in which I could hide myself. Would I be found more interesting if I didn’t give so much of myself away? It would require me to play a part. Am I the clown or the poet? To be taken too seriously or not seriously enough? The fluidity of becoming both will either empower or enrage me depending on the day. This obsession with defining myself for other people has always treated me unfairly.”