WARNING: Adult themes. Graphic and intense imagery. Strong language. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK
ACT I: SELF
I am here.
And already I am not enough.
I mask my body.
I mask my voice.
I mask my presence.
We carry ourself
and all we cannot carry.
Every judgment folds into us,
like a second skin.
We bend.
We break.
We perform.
I endure.
I survive.
I am here.
I am not enough.
ACT II: XXY
An extra X chromosome,
I carried from birth.
Lanky.
Low bone density.
Shoulders narrow.
Bones that grew in directions
that betrayed me.
Muscles that never matched my peers.
A body that betrayed me every day.
A genetic truth I couldn’t speak,
a reminder
that this would be the mask
following me to my grave.
Klinefelter’s shaped how I would move,
perform, blend into this world.
I built a mask over the boy inside:
feminine.
Uncertain.
I learned manhood the way others learn a
language.
Cracks in my voice were hormonal truths,
slipping past the facade.
Every injection: Borrowed masculinity.
Every drop: Declaration. Armor. Confession.
The performance I must sustain.
Anchoring me to an identity
whose strings are manipulated by
circumstance.
XXY: does not lessen me.
It shapes me.
While I exist in-between.
It is my blood.
It is my truth.
And I wear it:
SHAMELESS.
INTERLUDE
How much is the mask, how much is you underneath?
I don’t answer that directly. Not yet.
Is it exhaustion, or is it intent?
I’m aware of every choice I make. Every word, every movement.
ACT III: CAGE
The first cage was metal.
No mattress. No sheet.
Freezing.
Unforgiving.
They handed me the
green smock.
Thick. Sleeveless.
It itched.
It choked.
It performed.
A mask of fabric.
A mask of restraint.
Styrofoam trays.
No fork. No spoon.
Tore a corner.
Shoveled inside.
Sludge excreted.
Lights
blinded.
Oily
eyelids.
Suffocation
burned.
Bleak.
Dead.
Me.
Wake. Shiver. Chew.
Never asleep.
Never awake.
Repeat.
Shoes stripped of laces.
Bruised forearms.
Endurance. Isolation.
Every scrape of the smock,
reminded me of the burden,
I carry alone.
A mask imposed.
By a world that measures you:
less than.
Shackles.
Turtle suits.
I wore them:
HOPELESS.
ACT IV: BLADE
Wards.
Never.
Ended.
Cuffs.
Transport vehicles.
Zip codes.
Plexiglass.
Institutions.
Safe-rooms.
Slip-proof
socks.
VISIBLE.
SEEN.
ALONE.
2
1
Property
of
the
State.
I wore by law.
Cartons of milk like
we were children.
Broken
board
games.
Crayons for cognitive
exercises.
Adult agency removed.
Replaced with
a mask of
compliance.
Assessments.
Paper scrubs.
TVs bolted to the ceiling.
Furniture bolted to the floor.
5
1
5
0
Intake.
Evaluation.
Release.
Relapse.
Embarrass family on Christmas.
Knife to my throat.
Riot shields.
Dogs.
5150
Intake.
Evaluation.
Release.
Relapse.
Embarrass family every Christmas.
REPEAT.
INTERLUDE
Are you ever aware of how much you’re hiding behind it?
Always. That’s the point.
If everything came off, all the masks, all the layers… would you even be recognizable?
Maybe not. Maybe that’s why I keep layering.
ACT V: REJECT
The recruiter knew.
He helped me slide.
He wanted his bonus.
I wanted a way out.
Two hustlers shaking hands.
Two masks exchanged.
Alcoholic.
No direction.
Medicated.
Uniform as a cure.
Army as rehab.
Failed adaption.
Mentally unfit.
They knew.
I knew.
Reject.
Slipped off base.
Bought smokes.
Booze.
Sold it to the same platoon that rejected
me.
Mask of defiance.
Mask of rebellion.
I socked my battle buddy,
in the commander’s office.
Drill sergeant. Smirked.
Balboa.
Echoed off
concrete halls.
Futures
marched.
We stayed behind.
A platoon of rejects.
We.
Were.
Smokes. Drinks. Laughs.
Boot tongues out.
Outcasts.
Rejects.
Outlaws.
Masks shared.
Masks loosened.
Masks chosen.
Waiting to go back
to our
fucked-up lives.
I was in
no rush.
I loved every second
of that strange freedom.
INTERLUDE
Do you ever wonder who it’s for? The audience, or yourself?
Don’t ask me stupid questions.
Do you feel weighed down by the performance, or liberated by it?
Both. It’s a tension I live inside every day, trapped between exposure and protection.
Truth and artifice.
ACT VI: I AM HERE
Coupons sliced.
Bloody elbow
ditches.
Plasma sold.
for sixty.
Enough to pay
a model.
Enough to pretend
I’m worthy.
Fridge
half-empty.
Self
half-empty.
I walk into stores with nothing but
stamps,
coupons and
guilt.
Every smile
borrowed.
Every “I’m fine”
rehearsed.
Masks of having it together.
Masks I no longer remember putting on.
I’m broke.
Can’t hold a job.
No
Money.
Body.
Love.
I bleed for this art.
I bleed to stay alive.
Selling real blood to
purchase fake blood.
One keeps the performance
alive.
The other keeps the persona
alive.
I can’t tell which one is the fraud.
Maybe it’s all me,
bleeding through the surface.
The last known layer disintegrated into Arizona.
Nothing is hidden anymore.
I let go.
Not for you. Not for anyone.
This is my body, my truth, my confession.
Keep it. Forget it. It doesn’t matter. I’m done pretending.
I am enough.
WRITTEN. DIRECTED. EDITED.
—DOPE EDIT WORLD
CREDITS & ACKNOWLEDGMENT
ACT V STILLS 👉 B. James Kind
ACT V SFX ARTIST 👉 Noelle Navejar
ACT IV STILLS 👉 Kate Baby
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