let us toast,
my dear,
to making it this far.

even with our tortured minds
and glazed eyes;
hell,
who would've guessed it?

//

it's a good thing you don't wear mascara in public.
then again,
maybe it doesn't really matter.
you only cry when you're alone.

and i'm sure you're more broken than you seem,
though you still manage to get up and
plaster a smile
onto your cold, blank face
each dreary morning.

//

i am not the poster child of happiness,
or wealth,
or intelligence.
(they don't know that, though.)

failure is in my veins,
mistakes written into my skin
with permanent marker --
the same one they use
to write all those A+s.

//

is it really faking
if we believe it, too?

bravo,
bravo,
look how good we've gotten --
believing our own
little
white
lies.

but little white lies
never hurt nobody.

//

right?