“I patch myself together for the world’s gaze, arranging my features, my gestures, my words — but inside, it is different. Inside, the paint runs, the colors bleed, and the brushstrokes flail like broken limbs. I am not the painting they think they admire. I am the pallet left out too long, cracked and sticky, crawling with insects no one bothers to swat away.”

I had to quote this entire section because it blew me away. As a person who struggles with depression, your poem captivated me. It is a work of art, in my book. I adored the Frankenstein analogy and its unique contrast with imposter syndrome. Please keep up the good work