My dear, why do you pretend? Why not let them see the wounds you've hidden inside? They are not physical, like some you've seen; They are mental and emotional, but still cut deep like a knife. This face you put on And this character you play It's all fake. Faulty. You're a fraud. It's bittersweet the way you pretend that you're okay; As if you were truly happy. It hurts him to see you this way And you enjoy it don't you? You think you do, but it's fake. Faulty. You're a fraud. It kills you; the way he is stuck in this perpetual winter. Those wounds that mar his arm; you just want them to go away, But he parades them around like a trophy. Tell me now, what contest did he win? Oh how sweet it would be for that smooth white flesh to return, But this isn't sweet. It's bitter. The past is the past and we cannot change that now. It will haunt And torment, For as long as you allow it to. So, why do you pretend? Why not let them see the wounds you have hidden inside? They'll figure it out eventually And it hurts too much to hold it all in. My sweet sweet dear, Stop pretending.