People call me the master of masquerades,

The babe of bashfulness and the empress of emptiness.

Laughing at imperfection because actually “I’m perfection”

It’s irony, just like blood.

For every moment of despair.

Every tear soaked sheet.

Every self inflicted scar.

I would feel the tide whipping and waving whirls of serotonin,

sucking me under and swallowing my oxygen deficient carcass.

But I changed, like a broken light bulb,

and baby I’m new and improved,

energy efficient.

People like me are Gods at this ball.

Walking silent under our veils.

Secret idols to be looked up to

because as a survivor I’ve seen hell

Born and raised

adapted.

And I am not afraid.