Masquerade of Me

By Pratishtha Kumari

I like my multiple personalities.

Some may whisper it’s a disorder—

but how would I truly know?

They say the afflicted never realize…

yet I wear every mask like a masterpiece,

delighting in the confusion it breeds.

Watching familiar faces writhe in quiet distress

has become my favorite pastime.

No diagnosis claims me—

I simply perform the chaos.

It grants a perverse pleasure,

a secret hope that people will orbit me,

never daring to look away.

I am the main character

splintering into bewildering roles,

haunting them until their final breath.

I will wound myself, fully aware,

for the exquisite thrill of it—

and wound others too,

a living echo of a childhood steeped in cruelty.

I envy those bathed in golden memories;

I punish them in one persona,

then feign ignorance in the next,

as if the disorder explains it all.

Every performance wins me

another shard of attention—

from counselors, from kin, from anyone who dares to care.

And sometimes I wonder:

if there is no disorder

and I orchestrate this misery by design…

what darker sickness must be nesting in me

that even I cannot name?

By Pratishtha Kumari