What an odd tradition,
Ripping the living from everything they’ve known,
To be agonizingly used,
Carved and cut and shaped to fit,
Until there’s nothing left.

What an odd tradition,
The pain of one thing
Brings joy to another,
How it must feel,
To be suffering inside but appearing with a smile.

What an odd tradition,
Why are we drawn to pain and torment,
Why must we paint on a face that isn’t meant to be,
Why do we slice masks of smiles on faces aching with sorrow

Maybe it’s not such an odd tradition.