HYPOCRISY

My weakness exposed.  My facade penetrated.   But only for a moment, then I retreat.  My strength, it came not from truth, but from the illusion of pride, stitched together by fear and applause.

I smile, knowing the mask I wear presents strength, a curated beauty, a crown of competence.  I call it self-rule.  The world calls it leadership.  But inside, I tremble, because I know: control is an illusion.

I manage appearances like a juggler, always adding one more ball.  One more success. One more verse.  One more proof I’m okay.  I preach vulnerability, but practice self-protection.  I tell myself I’m better than, better than the one who fell publicly, better than the addict, the angry one, the doubter.  At least I still look put together.

But deep down, I know: I’m tired.  The image is heavy.  The crown is paper.  The mirror is cracking.

And when the mask finally slips, when my soul leaks through the seams, I wait for judgment.  But instead, I hear grace whisper:  I see you. And I never loved the mask — I loved you.

 1 John 1:8–9   “If we claim to be without sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us.

If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.”