Tragic heroes have tragic flaws.
At least, that's what the sophomore language arts teacher had taught.

Juliet and Romeo,
ignorant obsession.
Macbeth,
unchecked ambition.
Achilleus and Agamemnon,
self-righteous ego.
Tragic heroes slew by the pen for a lesson.

What about the ones that succeed?
How could they possibly have flaws?
We hold them on a pedestal for all to see.
Maybe they truly were perfect--at first.

It's easy to fake a smile.
Nothing has changed, we are the same.
Not every flaw can be seen at surface level,
and they're not necessarily vices.

For instance, loyalty.
Now that'll get you killed.
Put that into perspective,
and we're all just tragic heroes with tragic flaws.

I wear my mask almost every single day
It feels like I just can't get away.
I wear it to hide the real and true "me"
Hide me away so no one can see.

I wear a mask to hide the truth
I was hurt many times during my youth.
Trusting people who shouldn't be trusted
My innocent self was truly beyond busted.

The mental illness that resulted from that
Makes every day a day with combat.
I wear my mask to hide from others
My struggles that I seek to cover.

People with BPD struggle immensely
To seek and to hold their own true identity.
I count myself as one among them
A lifetime of masks I have been condemned.

It feels as though I am a ball
Up and down, forever I fall.
Not tethered to anything, flailing about,
A cycle I cycle, never to get out.

It affects my relations by ceasing to exist
Even though I try hard to persist.
My personality changes too often
Hanging with me deserves a precaution.

So I'll wear my mask, I'll don it again
To keep them from seeing me so insane.
The true "me" is hidden, back to pretend I go,
You know me too well, true "me" almost showed.