I only let people see who I want them to see; the idea of me.
To them I am sweet, everlasting, loving. To them I am okay.
But when reality sets; they see whats beneath the idea of me.
They see the complications. The tears I passed off as a sweet release of joy. The everlasting scars of grief. The love I give that I don’t receive. Now they see the frail weak me.
The idea of me is a broken metaphor. Whats beneath the surface will surely rise. I am but a mask of what will always lie.
Nothing remains unseen for long. The mask will break, the truth will be told. The idea of me will soon unfold.
© horrorhxney/madisonstiff