What is your masquerade of moving pictures now
that you’ve landed screen down on the floor?
Will you keep your mask as tied to your heart as you keep your cards close to your chest?
I’m beginning to think you don’t even know what lies beneath it anymore.
Would you recognise your own broken skin?
Lines naturally painted to your face?
Curves on your hips?
You were begging for so long to become a work of fiction - how does it feel to not exist?
To have become an echo of toxic vanity?
You filled in all the the cracks for all your followers to see
But now they see them all
As your world shatters
screen down on the floor.