Trippers and askers surround me, 

projecting onto me what they expect to view in who it is that I am,

seeing nothing but my grades,

an overachiever who is made whole by my lack of any athletic skill.

They see my skin color, my looks, my clothes, and assume that I must be insecure, 

They see my friends, and my sense of humor, and assume that I must be desperate to fit in and impress.

But they are not the me myself.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands who I am,

I am curled up in a book, escaping into fantasy worlds to avoid my own,

I am  holding a cat in my lap, allowing my breaths to match its own,

I am the ocean breeze on my face,

I am fluid, never truly fitting any mold despite appearances,

Experimenting with makeup, clothes and hair to find a way to match my outside to my inner self, only to wash it all off when called.

The me myself only appears when I am alone,

Locked into my room,

Truly allowed to stare into the mirror, make faces, and laugh,

Acknowledging that what others think of me is but a series of elaborate masks,

Without which I am naked.