“When They Clap”

When they clap,

I shrink in my skin

unworthy to receive.

Like, it’s a façade they see.

Are they clapping for me?

Or to be polite,

for moral support, right?

This is the dialogue in my head;

Am I who I say I am?

Or is it today’s narrative I coined myself?

Fluent in nodding while doubting,

I sit still beneath their praise.

It’s as if my skin is glass

see-through, bare,

naked.

Though, I did the work,

I must convince them

it came from me.

In a room where I’m small,

I arrive in costume.

They applaud.

I stay.

I pretend.

Hoping one day,

this costume will become my skin.