8 Aby L.:Behind the Picket Fence

Behind the picket fence The road lined with identical homes, each the same architecture with three alternating colors, a bright red door on each, a bright blue mailbox sat at the end of each perfectly manicured lawn. Healthy green grass with shining concrete driveways. Every home Guarded by a fence. A solid white picket fence. Not a soul knows the truth, tragedies or triumphs laying behind the fence, a suburban mystery. A perfectly polished family, they own the newest clothes, fanciest cars. Blue eyes and blonde hair. Perfect. Everything is seamlessly beautiful and endlessly perfect. Only those four know what happens behind their fence, the good the bad the horrific. You can paint yourself as perfectly as possible. Make yourself as socitaly perfect as possible. Building a mask, making it look as if nothing goes wrong, nothing hurts, nothing affects you because you're perfectly polished, clean and beautiful. You've built your fence. Your mask We are all hiding who we are behind our own metaphorical fence, we build our true selves into a tiny perfect shell. Maybe we let in a select few people, tell them our truth. What makes us, what breaks us. But truly the only person who knows what lays behind our fence is our own self. Whatever it is you're going through, however big or small, it means something to somebody. Someone out there is going to break your fence, they are going to want to hear the ugly truth. Everything you've buried. word count:247