We are masked,

In a world that does not care enough to wonder

If exposure could reveal

The answer.

 

The answer we are searching for,

What it is that we need most innately,

that we will wearily traverse our souls to uncover.

The most primal ache to be

 Loved, Cherished, Treasured

By another.

 

This is what we let the mask shroud

So that our own images hide its essence,

Our pride leaks over the boundaries of confidence,

spilling vehemently, like blood from an internal wound,

gushing torrentially over this hidden truth.

 

 

We love only ourselves,

For we fear rejection from another.

We cannot accept imperfection,

yet believe wholly in our flawed self-sufficiency.

We are hypocrites,

hidden and afraid.

 

What if we were to bare our clandestine selves?

But only to the thrown-away,

Into the sinister, austere sepulcher of lost hopes,

Broken dreams,

Hearts trampled, and violated.

 

To be deemed unworthy, and left to rot,

To spread like a corrupted fungus,

Poisoning the minds of others, infecting those around us,

until we all believe in the lie,

that we are empty, worthless,

 a waste.  

 

Engraved details, fine lines of an image,

Blend like dimmed starlight

Into our hearts.

Etching the words upon our souls,

 Scrawling the unforgiving choice,

Of a façade more alive than

the truth.