In vacant masks
We hide the veins
Where the sickly blood
Flows within us
Like a raging, hidden
Flame divided
Beneath a blanket
Of expectations
Of lacerations
Of blocked
Shocked
Methods of filth

Where we can act
As though we are better
When someone leaves
Or mistreats
Or walks away
Or makes them pay
We sit with our hands
Together like some morbid
Altar boy drunk on
Some misconceived
Notion that we are
Better.