Tightness

Tightness.

A noticeable and not insignificant reduction in the rate in which you breathe.

You start to get shaky and every action takes a little bit more effort. You feel as if every muscle is straining against some invisible force to keep you in place.

You don't want to move because you feel as if you might stumble. You don't want to stumble because you don't want to draw attention to yourself.

Every effort seems worth it to push forward but you just want to crawl into a ball at the same time. You want them to look away and you want them to hold you and you want them both at the same time.

You want someone to care for you but you want to push them away. You want to push them away because you want someone to care for you but you can't reconcile these two things because every time someone gets close you can't take it.

Tightness. Fear. Anger? Not yours. Theirs. If they knew.

Sadness.

Deception.

What would it all mean if their world crumbled before their eyes because you spent so long propping it up that you didn't realize it was empty.

Like one of those beautifully crafted two foot deep Hollywood buildings that fall flat when you push them.

All the window dressing in the world won't hide what's behind the curtain. It's just gonna be you, standing there like an idiot with a hammer, a board, and some nails realizing that you have nothing to hold up anymore.

Even if they accept you for who you are without the window dressing you turn tail and run. You run and run and run because it hurts too much to realize that the deception you put up wasn't even necessary.

But you've spent too long showing them the other face to stay. It would be wrong. It would hurt them. Would it? Do they care?

I don't know if they do.

I don't know.