I want to see what you see when you
Look at me.
But maybe you already do.
Is it not just disappointment I see,
Etched all over your face?

I have been there,
I know it a little too well.
The chill of being seen, yet not wanted.
The fear of being heard, yet not understood.
I know all of it. A little too well.

I've worn the perfect face,
Times I've lost count of.
You don't trust it.
And how could you?
Neither do I.

I want to know,
What will you do
When the walls break,
And the prisoner escapes?

I've heard its screams
During the longest days and nights,
None of which are ever real.

How can it be blamed?
Even ghosts want to be seen.