b e h i n d

behind every face is a mask. here is mine.

i was eleven when people were

so kind,

complimenting my intelligence and

claiming that math and english came so easily to me.

i was twelve when people began

stealing my well-written essays,

while whispering lies

about how i was helping them

be better.

i was thirteen when people decided to

hate the fact that

i was smart.

spreading rumors, being my friend

for answers,

became common.

i was fourteen when people called me

perfect.

not as praise,

but to mock me,

to raise jokes about the

girl who “never even tries.”

and now i am fifteen.

i am not perfect.

there is a mask of

high marks

and

a disciplined daughter.

but behind that,

you’ll see the

self-hate and tears

and long nights of paranoia

and minutes that feel like

hours

of anxiety,

all pouring out into

that test

that i

earned

an A on.