My existence feels like a crime,
cosplaying the best version of me
with a ridiculous smile.
That me is not me.
But for heaps of flowers and praise,
I might as well go on
with my finest kind of lie.
But with all those spotlights
where others seem to drown,
I’m told to reach so far,
to chase the blinding light,
to prove I can burn beneath it.
That’s what I find among all,
my dearest kind of dream.
But when I’m out of sight,
when I’m not not me,
just me, me, me—
no costumes to wear,
no light to burn—
the lowest part of me
holds neither a dream
nor a lie.
Feb 26
Feb 26, 2026 at 3:24 PM UTC
My existence feels like a crime,
cosplaying the best version of me
with a ridiculous smile.
That me is not me.
But for heaps of flowers and praise,
I might as well go on
with my finest kind of lie.
But with all those spotlights
where others seem to drown,
I’m told to reach so far,
to chase the blinding light,
to prove I can burn beneath it.
That’s what I find among all,
my dearest kind of dream.
But when I’m out of sight,
when I’m not not me,
just me, me, me—
no costumes to wear,
no light to burn—
the lowest part of me
holds neither a dream
nor a lie.
