hole

I feel like a slowly deflating balloon

Air leaking out from the deep hollows of my chest,

From some unknown, pinprick of a hole.

Nobody knows that my soul seeps insidiously, discreetly –

Like how no one discovers that a balloon has a hole in its membrane

Until it is visibly diminished in size.

I figure that a façade is only indecipherable,

When you commit to enough lies about yourself that even you cannot discern the difference between

Fact and fiction.

That is why, I tell myself that the hole, whether in the balloon, or not, does not exist,

And that Alice simply fell asleep and not into wonderland –

Because just like the white rabbit that she was chasing,

The hole that she willingly wished she tumbled into,

Was never reality; merely a wilful dream.

A construct, much like most identities,

A construct, built by societal norms,

A construct, put in place by hopeful yearning –

Defined by what’s supposedly right or wrong, or wrong, or wrong, or wrong –

The hole, does not, exist.

Because if it did, the balloon would not have deflated,

My chest would not be hollow,

Alice would not have fallen,

And I would still be

In love.