If it were, I could just shut off the light, shut my eyes, beg you to shut your eyes.  I could lose myself in the darkness, swallow down the bile and contort my face into something like a grin.  I could let myself believe your compliments, your attempts to soothe me, your attempts to make me work.  I would listen to them and use them to become more like the vision I hear in them.  I could lean back and pretend, imagine something wild and stunning and worry-free.  I could make it work.  I could fix it.

But that’s not it.  That’s not it at all.  It’s something else entirely.  Something I can’t speak, something I push out of the way and try to smother with awkward giggles and self-depreciating words.  Because making you think that’s it is so much easier.

But it’s not.