Am I Real?

by, Cassandra

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Am I scared? You can count on it. This is shit I've kept inside for so freakin' long, that I don't even know what it is anymore. I don't know if this will bring the growth, the closure I'm looking for, but I've got too much to lose to not try. Too much to lose or not enough to lose? That seems to be the question of the fucking day.

Am I ready? No, I'm not, so don't be surprised if I'm dragging my feet on this. I'm not ready to understand what makes me what I am, even though it's what I've been trying to uncover from the start. I was purposely using my hands to dig instead of a spade, because I'm not prepared to unearth what I've been hiding.

Am I tired? Yes. I'm so tired of this life and the lies and the truth and trying to make something into nothing. It's exhausting, and I've lost my will, my strength to keep pushing on. I'm ready to give up, to let things fall where they chose, because I'm so sick of trying to fit this puzzle together. I'm missing far too many pieces.

Am I broken? No, I'm not broken. I'm fucking shattered, but I'll never let you see it. I'm trying so hard to keep up this façade, but it's getting harder with every passing day. I've pretended to fall so many times, just to explain the multiplying cracks in this mask, but every fall takes its toll. I don't want to get up anymore.

Am I real? Well, that's the question everyone wants an answer to, but I'm afraid that I can't give it. I have no idea if I'm real. Am I just an illusion, created to make you believe I'm still here, still alive? I couldn't tell you, because I can't even feel myself breathe anymore. I've succumbed to the very thing I was trying to fight.

I can stop pretending now. Reality has finally killed the fantasy.