What Makes Me Real


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.


Crying because

It makes me view

Myself when I am broken,

And looking through all the cracks

Shows me the weaknesses that make me real.


Leaving because

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.


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