The old projector whirs to life.
Silently, images flash on screen.
I edit heavily.
After all, no one knows the real me.
The me I project, well, I like her!

Meanwhile, in the flickering darkness,
I hide my disfigurement.
The real me, tucked away safely.

The me I project seems funny, smart, kind.
The real me? She wants to be the center of the universe.

Who gets to peek behind the curtain?
Maintaining the illusion is tiring.

The me I project fights to keep the projector running;
Fear etched onto her perfect face.
The real me emerges out of the darkness, blinking
into the Light.  No more hiding.

Megan Burmester
July 23, 2018