The dancer struts the stage, 

confident of the choreography

and plastered with passion.

Her smile, the lipstick skews.

Her eyes, the liner suffocates. 

But there is something inexplicably intoxicating

about that face.

Every feature,

once so pure,

altered... consumed

by that false resonance

of stage makeup.

 

When I exit that stage,

when I return home, 

and the adoring crowd is gone, 

who am I?

I wipe the makeup off. 

Who am I?

 

I return from the beach

with sun-kissed skin

and wind-tossed hair.

Ray Bans are put away

and the convertible top crawls back down.

I put on an old T-shirt.

Who am I?

 

I leave the talent show

with my third place prize.

The sparkling outfit comes off

and my friends

who just screamed in vivacious support

minutes ago

were already back

to their own lives.

I am alone in the house.

Who am I?

 

My life, so jam-packed with activity,

gives me no time to just be me.

At work, in school, or in town:

my preoccupied appearance

hides my inner turmoil.

Under the makeup,

behind the shades,

without my friends...

who am I?

 

If one could see the authenticity of my soul,

unaltered by filters and perceptions,

he or she would see

love

pain

passion

and perseverance. 

One would see 

triumph and failure,

hope and despair.

One would see 

my mind, always wandering,

my intentions, sometimes pure

(for I am only human),

and my instincts, never wrong.

 

I stare into the mirror and delve into my soul,

saturated with sentiments.

Most confusing and contradictory thoughts.

Above all, I am human.

Yes, I am imperfectly perfect

in this skin of mine.