Turning Purple

I wake up, and the first thought isn’t coffee, isn’t sunlight, it’s this voice- pounding in my chest, screaming in my head— You’re lying. You’re faking. You’re tricking instead. I smile and it feels like a scam. I laugh and it feels like a sham. Every hug, every word, every “I am-” falls apart in my mouth like I never meant it. I want to scream: I swear I’m not trying to trick you! But then the echo comes back: Are you sure? Are you sure? Are you sure? Until truth feels like a costume I forgot to take off. Where do I end? Where does the mask start? Where’s the real me, and where’s the false part? I’m choking on guilt that doesn’t belong to me, but I wear it anyway, like it was custom-made. I cut my own strings to prove I’m not pulling yours. I open my hands to show you no wires. But the more I insist I’m not holding the script, the more I sound like the liar I swear I’m not- until even the air I breathe turns purple.