Masquerade.

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The sun comes up, it's been a hard night.

Her eyes are red, swollen from nights

of fighting her own inner demons.

The ones no one even realizes exists.

She drags herself from her bed, her sanctuary, 

and wonders what mask she should wear today.

She washes her face, applies her make up,

and covers her battle scars with long sleeved shirts and cover up.

She losing her battle, but no one really knows.

She bursts into the school with a smile on her face. 

She's popular, she's smart, why should anyone be concerned?

But the mask has become her, and she is dancing to her own masquerade.

They don't realize it, but everyone is dancing to her masquerade too.

Because no one wants to know her real dance.

Who wants to dance to the tune of sorrow? 

To the tune of divorce, and of a father diagnosed with bipolar disorder.

Who wans to dance to the tune of self harm and low self esteem?

Of eating disorders and anxiety.

A masquerade is more fun, certainly.

But only for those around her.

Soon, this masquerade might kill her.

But at least the people around her are still happy.

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