If the eyes are the window to the soul, then my soul is covered by a clear plastic mask with black frames. 

You call me hipster but really that is just my costume. Just my mask. 

It keeps me distant. It keeps from getting too close. It bans me from the proximity that scares me the most. 

If you could really see beyond the lens into my soul then you would see a disaster. But you don’t even have to look that far to see it. 

The cuts on my lip. 

The nails bitten down. 

The tenseness and the tightness in my posture and position. 

My eyes that won’t reach another when I whisper my truths. 

The space I put between me and everyone else. 

The constant apologies that spill from my mouth like a chemical reaction. 

 

Anxiety is my master and depression is my conscience. 

 

Driven by phobia and ruled by self-doubt. 

If I scream out, the void will not echo the comfort I need. The comfort I seek. 

But it's the comfort I won’t find. 

So I do what I always do. 

I find a box. I seal the screams in it with chains. And massive amounts of duck tape. 

Then I draw a smile on my face. Cover my soul with black rimmed plastic. 

It’s a thin covering but nobody digs that shallow anyways. 

They glance and see the plastic but think it’s skin. 

They see the smile that I’ve worked into place and think it’s genuine. 

My glasses don’t help me see but they keep others from seeing me.