It’s a sign of weakness, they said, to show your face: “too pale, too tired, too human.”
My mind is racing, looping like a broken wheel… Do they hate me?
Every glance feels like a weapon; every word, a cold dissection. I try to walk through the crowd unseen, but I am simply raw meat on a butcher’s hook, spinning slowly under the fluorescent lights.
And then I see her. She laughs, and I think it’s a kindness, but she looks away too quickly. My fists tighten; the world sharpens into jagged edges. Pull her hair, I think, rip the scalp off, strip the mask, and see if what’s underneath is as hollow as what I feel.
But the moment passes, like all moments do. My pulse somehow slows, the crowd swallows me whole again. I have no mouth. I want to scream. I can’t. I want to decide something, anything, but the choices aren’t mine to make.
Don’t you see?
Nothing is decided by us, in this modern world.
It’s a strong bond to appearances.
I turned this poem into a song.
