Censored Soul by Anne Malcom

I give myself to strangers.
When I’m on stage, and when I’m off it.
Whether it’s throngs of screaming fans or just one man, it’s always outsiders. People who don’t know me. Not the real me.
It’s easier, because then it’s not so obvious that there is no real me. Just layers of lies.
Then I’m peeled back to the nerve. Showing the world my ugly. Everyone sees me for what I am.
Rightfully so, they hate me.
Almost as much as I hate myself.
I’m willing to hate myself for what I’ve done. To wither away into some washed up old rock star.
But he doesn’t let me.
I want to hate him.
He doesn’t let me do that either.