over and over until the breaking

i'm a fraud

over and over: the tightness in my chest when words die in my throat.
over and over: standing at the edge of laughter i can’t join.
over and over: returning home, door closed, mask removed, nothing left.

it doesn’t stop. it is the identical twin of the before. me searching to be part of conversation. me searching to be liked. me returning home and being numb. me telling people my problems, and them saying the same things, over and over.

i have always been good at listening. the kind of listening that makes people feel understood. i see it in their eyes when they talk to me. they feel heard. they feel lighter. and for a while, that made me feel useful. maybe even loved. but now, now that same gift has become something else. it drains me. because every time i hear someone, i lose a little bit of myself. i soak up their stories like a sponge, and at some point, i stopped knowing what parts were mine.

they call it empathy. they say, “you’re such a good listener,” as if that’s a blessing. but they don’t see the after. they don’t see me returning home, closing the door, removing the mask, sitting with the silence that follows. not silence like peace. silence like absence.

i know what i should do—that’s not the problem. the problem is doing it. the problem is becoming. becoming someone else. and i don’t want to, even if becoming her is my deepest wish. i don’t want to. because i’m afraid. not just of failing—but of changing. of morphing into someone else entirely. even if that someone else is what i’ve always wanted.

“c’est quand le mariage?” “ma tête ne retient pas ce truc-là.” “il y a encore longtemps.” “oui non je comprends, pour moi c’est la même chose, c’est ouf.” “je t’ai raconté de...”

all talking to each other while i listen. i do listen. that is the only thing i can do. they see my nodding head, my attentive eyes. they don’t see my mind screaming behind them. their voices grow louder while i grow fainter.

i smile. i nod. i smile. i nod. i smile. i nod. i disappear.

i used to be part of things. maybe not the center, but somewhere on the edge, at least. close enough to hear laughter, close enough to feel its warmth. but now i’m always on the outside—smiling, nodding, pretending i’m there. in reality, i’m measuring my breath, counting my words, rehearsing every message in my head. No word, no message is safe anymore. so i calculate. and when it’s too much, i disappear.

i isolate when i can’t anymore, when i can’t put on a mask anymore. i see myself clearly: not funny, not light, not enough. not happy enough to be around. so i isolate in search of the energy to put the mask back on.

sometimes, i wonder if i’ve gotten used to the shell. if i’ve grown fond of it. if i’ve made it home. because every time i try to step outside it, i feel the weight return to my chest. the ache. the tiredness that doesn’t come from lack of sleep, but from just being.

a sponge doesn’t choose what it absorbs. it takes in everything. the clean and the dirty. the light and the toxic. and when it’s full, it doesn’t cry out. it just drips.

i feel like a fraud. like i’ve changed my face too many times and no one has ever seen the real one. if there even is one. do i even exist, outside of how others perceive me?

i tell myself i don’t care. not caring. not caring at all. that’s all i do, all day, every day. not caring. but that’s a fraud too. i care. but i would like not to. like, yeah, do whatever. i don’t care. i don’t care if you don’t speak to me. i don’t care if i’m alone. i don’t care if people find me ugly—interior and exterior, especially the appearance.

all these things i think about, or try not to care about.

i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care
i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care
i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care
i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care
i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care
i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care i do not care

but the repetition only proves the opposite.

an infinite cacophony that haunts me. it hunts me. following, being there, watching, searching for my fall, for the moment i’ll twist my opinion, for the moment my walls will crumble and i’ll restart to care.

time, thoughts, words—they overlap, they overlap, and i have to follow each and every one of them. and it is exhausting.

and why do i want—always, always, in every moment, at every breath—to cry? sometimes i imagine myself crying so hard i could refill the oceans. turn my tears into saltwater, my thoughts into tides. become something vast and unreachable. a planet of my own.

other times, i think i’ve already become that. distant. invisible. just air—oxygen without form. wind without sound. people say i seem calm. they say i seem kind. but inside, i am a storm waiting to break.

breaking, to let hydrogen form bonds. unifying to form ozone. waiting for the storm. waiting for the tempest. the tears i’ll cry. the rain i’ll let fall.

darkness. only darkness. without light to see shadows—only a mist of shadows. nothing is visible. nothing is reachable.

i’m a fraud. i’m the lie. complaining, complaining. but do i have the right to complain? after all, i’m just a spoiled girl, always asking for more, always annoying myself, reaching nothing, being the useless fork—the one no one will use anymore because it has a strange shape.

i’ve been used up. i’ve bent so much i don’t know my original shape. and now, even the mask is cracking.

after years and years of being used, what is it? what am i, after years and years of living in my head, of listening, of absorbing?

the sponge is full. the fork is bent. the mask is cracking.

i’m tired of dripping quietly. i want someone to notice the leak. not just admire how well i carry it.

over and over and over until there’s nothing left but the dripping.

drip.
drip.
drip.