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.