Earthly possessions, earthly possessions;
At most they’re all of my greatest confessions

As the mask I so love to wear over my face
Is a mask made out of chameleon skins-
It grants me a shrewd changing appearance,
Camouflaging myself, to fit in with the crowd.

I smile in the mirror
Trying not to cry.
I cannot comprehend
How my red eyes
And white teeth
Can coexist like this.
If only I could will
Myself to be happy.
I have to be happy
For the others.

So I grin
Because I read
Somewhere
That it could make
Me happy.

all my past
      imposes on my breath today

i enter a grand mosaic public building
        and on goes my medical face mask
i join the back of the queue with my documents in one hand
            and my numbered butcher ticket
                          in the other
i admire the mosaics
               a jarring tide of art against the bureaucratic purpose
                     of these rooms
gauzed in with own product exhaust
       all my past  is attending    
exhumed
  patted  into my breath
    baiting remembrance with unsubtle notes
for example :
   integrated spittings of 'drum' tobacco (i quit a decade ago)
horning catches of cologne every boy used as a teen
seasonal scents  unweaned from deep in my system
(some reigned in from the different countries
                                                    i lived in or visited)
then i am frisked back to infancy   with breast milk and rusks
it's all there    a basking flippancy
all there in musk about my face
  one fragrance after another

it's an honest relief
     to host an alternative to my 'old man' breath
           but odd and concerning
something of the brain ?

“I laugh when I’m sad,”
I said.

And then
I giggled
Softly.

busy pitter patters
of feet, at least
pretending
to be busy
these humans,
these flesh sacks,
place their bags
laptops
their unconsciousness
on this barnes & noble’s
coffee tables
whose chairs aren’t comfortable

yet, here they sit, beside me
amongst me
and an old
ancient, it seems now,
version of me would’ve cursed them
silently
while pretending to associate
to relate
to give a ****
for doing so,
for raising my anxiety,
for reflecting what i truly was,
at least
pretending
to identify with that narrow
window of my self

some collide
physically,
cosmically,
spiritually,
intuitively, whatever the hell you brand it

we all seek
connection,
always elsewhere,
never with our miserable
anxious selves

and if we can’t connect
we, at least
pretend
to do so
much like our riddling iphones
desperate for battery
for a sort of
charge
for life
elsewhere
somewhere else
anywhere
else rather than within

to be alone, amongst the crowds,
without our phones, our books,
our lovers, our seven dollar coffees,
our ******* egg white breakfast sanwhiches

almost as if these things
are essential to the unsavory
cravings and desires, or
dare i say
ourselves

we pretend
to work, to live
we read, without reading
we speak, without thinking,
we speak, without speaking,

“to be, or not to be.”

we don’t care for
intention
anymore
how could we?
we’re just so
un-*******-phadomably
busy
doing
nothing,

at all

just,
pretending.

-melanholicreator

She’s on top of the world
But she’s up there all alone.
She’s a goddess disguised
But her feet can’t find the ground
Anymore.

If you
Read her face you’ll see
The seasons never show.
Not new,
It’s a makeup routine for the ages
And no, no nobody knows the way
She’ll change into stone.

it is no surprise
that it feels
so suffocating
with a mask held
this firmly in place

8

She likes video games, reading books
and watching movies with family
She always day dreams
and plays outside alone, imagining.

She looks up to her big sister,
and likes to sing together in her car
Her little sister is annoying
She's always the shining star.

But together all three will walk to the park.

11

She likes to color, play guitar and sing
She dances in her room without worrying
One wall is covered with a teen pop sensation,
Others hold her poems and art that reveal her struggles and wishes.

She liked the attention singing got her
It made her feel like she was worthy.
She did her best to live up to
The things said by her family

13

She was sad often and preferred to be alone
She still played guitar but played games the most,
She liked writing poems and songs,
They let her express herself in any tone

She had plans to go far away one day,
with her best friend she would escape.
There'd be hello kitty tunnels
and fun had every day.

She fell victim to infatuation
which lead to many hearts being broke,
Forced to play outside,
she'd swing away her trauma while grasping ropes.

16

She's quiet, she stays in her room alone, she feels unwanted.
The internet is where she felt she belonged
Most people would hear her out
and wouldn't ask her to play them a song.

She was forced to go somewhere she was needed
She got an education out of it and an identity crisis.

25

She is independent, but still feels scared
She is working to understand her life
and is moving forward with care.

So don't call me Becca,
It reminds me of those years-
the times I was saddest and living in fear.

Becca had a mask that Rebecca has out grown.
The mask is smaller now and is becoming unsown.
It's been a painful process, the mask really hurt
This is where I'm at now, trying to unlearn.