A tree of hate. The branches continue to contort and disfigure in a flailing attempt to establish control. Control over my abilities, but most importantly, control over my exterior. What strengths I lack I make up for in manipulation; acts become excusable when you can make yourself the victim. The connections I build are not strong, my threadlike extension for friendship is rarely strengthened, and breaks on the smallest mishap; I often grow distant from others and blame it on them. My vivacious, outgoing personality is only skin deep, which is only as deep as most people see.
Roots of insecurity, stretching as wide as they do deep. My roots continue to grow, though do not manifest at the immediate surface. Planted by my mother, my dance teachers, my perfectionist desire to be the best I can be in any way and every way possible, they have no intent of being uprooted any time soon. Those close to me have tried to dig, tried to uproot, armed with shovels of compliments and adoration, but even they are too weak to even make a dent. I want to believe them, and be shrouded in their acceptance, but I cannot help but feel lied to. I mean, nothing short of the absolute best deserves praise.
But what of the heart? Is it mangled, twisted wood, merely a lesser version of that which once grew straight? Or am I merely devoid of a core of emotions and morals, governed only by my hedonistic pleasures? I am not straight, and I am not strong. My tough exterior suits those who'd rather not delve past appearances, but rather take things as they are. They don't see puffy, bloodshot eyes that I see when I look in the mirror after a particularly long night; they see the bright bubbly person I've always sought to come off as. Exhaustive lengths must be taken to preserve a certain identity, particularly when that identity isn't yours to begin with.
I often think about the freed life: away from the lies, away from the doubt, away from the hate I bring upon myself. It is only through the demolition of my old fragile structure that a stronger one can take root. But the pain of restarting may prove to be too much. Losing everything is hard; willingly giving everything up is even harder.
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