You hide behind hills,

Curves of rock snaking up,


The lakes and rivers--

Your tears.

And the blades of grass, a fine-woven net

To catch,

To cut,

To keep

Your stone heart, pulsing still,

Locked away in the deep dirt,

Encircled by twin paths,

Deeply trod,

That will never meet

Each other or your heart,

For though they may be trekked to the top,

And they might think they can see you,

You hug a tight, fine mist close

To your chest,

And you pretend you love it,

You cherish it,

Hold it close,

But it is just another mirage,

Like a shard of glass you hold and

Pretend it doesn't cut

Whilst it slices deeper,

Until your blood becomes the cover,

But one no one recognises as not you.

Still, your illusions mislead you:

Your mist,

It drowns you whilst

You think you're still breathing.

Your hills,

A castle you built

To burn.

Your grass,

Breaks with a single finger, like

Your mind at their eyes.

And your rivers,

Your tears that gnaw



Into the fragments of your face,

Opening canyons because

You think that the rain means no one sees

The tears,

The shaodws in your eyes,

And the war-paint underneath that

You've tried to wipe off

Because you want no one to know that

You tried,

And it wasn't enough,

And you're never enough,

So you hold that tight, close to your heart,

Wishing it was a knife,

But instead it just becomes



Because you hide behind hills,


And I hide behind mountains.

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