And the Oscar goes to
me—yes, to me, and God, I deserve it.
Every single day, I put on this mask
crafted with such care, just for you.
What you don’t see is that this performance is agony,
each smile a lie, each laugh a facade.
The nails I used to fix this mask so seamlessly
leave deep, aching scars when I get home.
What you don’t know is the real me,
the one hiding behind this charade.
And maybe it’s my fault for letting it go this far,
for not knowing how to be myself and let you in.
Who wants to be around the guy
who crumbles into a panic
at the mere thought of leaving the house to pay a bill?
Who wants to spend time with someone
who constantly cancels,
because the dread of possible anxiety
makes the idea of showing up unbearable?
The mask I drive into my skull
holds it all together, keeps me from falling apart.
But it’s not just one mask—I have a mask for every moment,
for every situation, until I no longer recognize myself.
And here I am, the award-winning actor,
playing a role I never wanted,
trapped in a performance I can’t escape,
longing for a chance to show you the face beneath.