Alive, alive—I own several masks to hide what is dead inside. I keep it hidden in the heart of the dark where nothing but fake bravado lurks and I am a prisoner confined in my own ribcage. Surviving on consuming myself from within eating my guts to have 'more of it', a massacre of glory and gore. My blood glows and hardens when i hear my name being screamed and with their words I stab myself repeatedly and plant in myself the seed of remorse until I bleed a garden of crimson blossoms to which I proudly smile at. I forgive and forgive others but never bothered to erase my mistakes with my soul penned in this writer's curse continuing to write in permanent ink pouring from the fragile glass cartridge of a heart. I smother myself to sleep paradise and wake up beautifully paralyzed adorned with their disapproving stares that look down on me.
An endless cycle of unraveling, even when there is nothing left to pull out and shred to pieces. Unlike the trees in the seasons unraveling themselves bare when their leaves die and resurrect. This tone of farewell sings salutations to the perfect as i see the skies above turn glassy as my eyes. It's hard to keep an image of yourself to please everyone and even yourself.
I lost parts of my masks when I let other people wear them for them to see how it's like to live so cautiously. Too many a crowd has used the masks and they are slowly being shattered under pressure, turning into a mirror, a reflection of inside —no, i must be careful with them all.
I almost freely gave one blue mask, my heart and my entirety, to someone who did not collect masks but collects sadness. Neither of us must not fall prey to the other and I will do what it takes to chain the kaleidoscope of beasts pulsating in me to protect that person called my salvation. I conclude: I must not let anyone wear my masks anymore to avoid hurting them from the shards of the broken me.
I wear my masks quietly a different one each day that no one would notice me.
Only I hope they will never forget I, who owns these masks—alive, to hide what is dead inside.
i don't celebrate halloween but i guess gloominess and sadness are somewhat a big part of me. and a huge chunk of this is inspired by my favorite gore anime.
masuku is the japanese term for mask. it also sounds like massacre, which in this poem, is the massacre of the self.