the mask

No makeup.

There's a bump here and there, blackheads and redness, and pores that I wish were smaller.

My hair down.

It's curly and imperfect, It's way too short and thin in the front.

My stomach and thighs

Have rolls and celulite and stretchmarks, I jiggle.

I am not as smart as I pretend to be.

I am not as good or generous as I wish I were.

I watch way more netfix than I do homework.

And I don't say "I love you" to my parents enough.

I am not sure if I have ever really been in love.

I've said it,

I love you.

To boyfriends.

I love you.

To girlfriends.

I love you.

To just friends.

And I confess that I am not sure if I ever really meant it, if I have ever felt the true, deep, beautiful love that I wish my parents had had when I was growing up.

The truth is, I think I just loved the idea of love, or the idea of them loving me.

They say to love someone you have to first love yourself.

But here I am.

Naked,

laughing and crying and screaming silent prayers to a God I'm not sure is real.

And I'm so afraid that I will never really let another person see all of this.

Because I like the filter, the facade, the mask.

The mask is always happy, the mask only weighs 135 lbs. The mask is confident and intelligent and beautiful and knows that her voice matters and doesn't care how loudly she laughs because she knows it's as contagious as the common cold.

The mask is my ambition. 

And one day, the mask will be my filterless reality.

No matter how much I weight or what my skin looks like, one day I will laugh at the top of my lungs and everyone around me won't be able to help, but crack a smile.