Bleeding because it paints the pictures
so heavily spilled
in my mind.
And seeing the crimson upon my skin
Gives me pain that makes me real.
It makes me view
Myself when I am broken,
And looking through all the cracks
Shows me the weaknesses that make me real.
It better when I stay
Away from the ones I love
And then they won’t remember
The mess that makes me real.
But most of all: hiding
Behind my own creation,
A “me” who isn’t me.
Because when I fake every moment,
I wear a mask that makes me real.