Pretend
Not another phone call. I just can’t. My fake voice, the one who says, “despite all evidence pointing to my life being unbearably overwhelming, I have it all under control”, that voice is silenced right now. My own hand gripping tightly at my throat, begs silence. Playing pretend is exhausting. It once saved me. Monopoly money and property cards in my childhood games of real estate. Repeated meet-cutes between my afro-queen Barbie and the Ken with brushable auburn hair and mousse. Pretend looks different now. Like the big smiles and warm laughter I don’t know how to turn off. The internal managers hoarding my tears refuse to let me have any to fall. I squint my eyes and will them…please, please let me cry. Pretend is a costume I didn’t know would be glued on. Where is the tub of acetone to soak in? Can I get it off like grown-out acrylic nails? It’s a wonder there’s anyone left underneath. But I hear her sometimes…wrestl...