I’m growing and changing
Sorry it took so long

I’m learning how to fit in
And sing my own song

All my mistakes
Were part of my masking

Doesn’t excuse them
Just please understand
The difficulty
Of the task

I’m this way for a reason
I can’t change my seasons
But I’m getting help

Learning to take off
My
Mask

Don’t speak, listen

When you need it
Just ask

Everyone else has gone home
I watch the waves and wait for the taxi cab.
Desperately clinging to my thank yous and sorrys I burrow myself in them, like a scared, lost kitten.  
Always needing.
Forced to be the Chameleon,
how could I know anything else?
God can only judge me, if he can find me.
I keep making gods out of people.
Stop.
Stop.
Stop.
I hold off until I can’t.
Nail me by my feet and by my hands
something inside of me
craves to be crucified.
Guilt has been woven into my body,
by hands as old as exodus.
To the Chameleon, this is what it is to be held.
This feels like home.
This, right here, is my everlasting.
Thank you,
I’m sorry.

I watch them talk, express, emote
Studying every movement, every smile, I take note
Compiling the data in an organized fashion
Psychology books I devour with an unbridled passion
Putting on a mask like I’m at a masquerade
Underneath lies a little girl, alone in a big arcade
Practising my laugh in front of a mirror
Wiping away tears just to see it clearer
Searching “how to identify sarcasm” late into the night
Sore, tired eyes from my phone’s bright light
Relapsing into tears
Ridicule is one of my biggest fears

Why can’t I be like everyone else?

I have spent
My entire life
Trying to figure out
How to be everybody else
To the point where
I don’t even know who I am anymore

I am not a book
I am not a poster
I am not someone you can read
I am not someone who shows her emotions.

I have a constant battle in me
I have a voice in my head saying “You got this!”
I have another voice saying “You’re worthless!”
I have a tornado of emotions that will not stop spinning.

You have seen me
You have heard me but
You have never known me.

I hide in dark corners
I hide from you
I hide from them
I hide from myself.

What am I afraid of?

The truth
The love
The pain
The judgment
Or maybe all of it.

With truth comes judgment and
With love comes pain.
So I hide

I bury everything
I bury sadness
I bury happiness
I bury loneliness
I bury anger
I bury joy.

But when it gets to be too much it bursts.

Everything and anything that stands in the way of that explosion gets demolished

My relationships
My friendships
My mind.

I am a broken person
I am a ticking time bomb
I am not a book.

Copy yourself,
make something other
a binary you,
in a world
of starships and code
and the fact that death
doesn’t really mean anything here.

Right here,
we don’t need
oxygen or food,
in this world
of falsity and fantasy
and the sweetness of hallucination
that aches behind your body.
Stand still,
headset firmly on
and breaths calm,
a new world awaits your better self
where you forget the depersonalisation
of still always being human.

Copy that,
you’re the captain
of false starships,
hurtling through uncertainty
with virtual reality comforting
you when you realise that
you’ll never be like this.

Another you,
version fifty-three
in a chain,
never changing yourself
or becoming something better
only sticking in mistakes
and pretending like it’s improvement.

Copy yourself,
make another other
for another self,
forget your body
and transmit human signals
to other fake-people
who tell themselves aching stories

of a reality
that we daren’t change.

Soft skin, marred,
jagged cheekbones
cutting into blank white;
suffocating plastic sweats
against the mouth of the thing.

A moth-swarm of faces,
of sickly hospital white
plastic; mouths gasping
for air and everyone drinking spirits
like the world is about to end.

The façade of a masquerade,
pearl whites with jagged oysters
creaking underneath, all botox
and sloppily revisited youth;
death is passed as a disease.

One within, too prideful
for a mask, yet pale faced
enough to spend the night
in the quagmire and relive
the quicksand underfoot forever.

Hard, wrinkled women
ruining themselves,
asphyxiating slowly in the crushing
pressure of plastic on sweat on skin
right down to the bone.

Still, the white-wind, bare, ghost
lingers in the after-party,
picking up the discarded masks
with smooth, youthful fingers;
resignedly exhaling down into sinking earth.

A smile is on my lips,
While a hole is in my soul;
I'll laugh for the moment,
But cry when I'm alone.

My mask is perfect,
Deceiving all who see.
They think I am content,
Cannot hear my silent plea.

If I am hurting,
You will never know.
My mask is unwavering,
Blow after blow.