Hidden

Tonight, I look impeccable. Sylish. A black high-waisted skirt with stiletto ankle boots make me look slim and classy. My hair is sleek and shine-a-wow, and my makeup is simple and clean.

But I sit here, and I feel small, and ugly, and inferior. I shift uncomfortably in my chair and try to slow the anxious tapping of my foot.
My mind wanders.
I squint my eyes in an effort to augment my vision to see more clearly, for I neglected to wear my glasses tonight (I didn’t want them to cause discord with my outfit).

And then I think: "If I can’t see them, perhaps they can’t see me." What a hopeful thought, though my adult mind is far too seasoned to fall for such childish niceties that shield the human mind from pain. No, they can see me. But no one really knows, really sees, do they? We never really can accurately probe the psyche of another. Our private pain, insecurities, and oddities remain hidden. Everyone masks them differently. In my case, I choose to veil my ugliness with beauty. With fashionable clothing. With expertly applied makeup.
With nothing that is real.