Masking Fake

Choking on the fumes of the fire, the pyromaniac’s, lit up desire. Sick of pulling my teeth, sick of holding the pliers. Can’t twist them enough, to cut these puppet strings and wires. Use my body as your spark, as the incendiaries embark. The one test that mattered, I fell short of the mark and no flame can ever, light up all my dark.

You’ve become the protagonist, taken over the role of my life, ripped up all the pages, detached the feelings from the spine. Taking the limelight, I can see it from behind these eyes. It’s like you’re typing these words for me, but I’m the one who writes the lines.

I look the same, but I’m suffocating behind this mask. Designed to make it easier, but feels like I’m choking on a gas. Claustrophobic in my own skin, asphyxiated by an evil twin. Something inhuman I give everything to surpass. You can’t see the wind, but doesn’t mean it ever stops blowing on the glass.

The truth is spoken but the filter of dissociation is broken, and always finding ways to circulate, something fake, till I choke n’, break down like the particular particles of reality that pass me by. It’s like living and dying, to crack through, back to the other side. But there’s no known fail-safe, no reset or restart, so these demons inside continue to rip me apart, pouring a venom in my skin, torn between the choice as to swim or sink, and accept my fate of being frozen in time at the brink, of life and death, or, well, whatever time I have left, and you can’t tell me to take my mind off it, cause it’s like an abduction, a theft. I can’t sleep at night because I’m obsessed, with the thought of waking up as me again, so I can’t get no rest. Could you give up fighting if your child was snatched away, could you ever just take your mind off that? So I find solace in talking to others in dark places, just chewing the fat. Cause they understand, they know this place, this hellish habitat. And It’s not a place for living, it’s a constant fight or flight, with bomb bay doors itching to open, and set fire to the night. To reduce this life to rubble, to turn the suffering thoughts to dust, even if the stigma insinuates, such actions are unjust. So who can you turn to? Who do you trust? And you try to fly through the night, keep on increasing the thrust. Stuck in a holding pattern, and running on empty reserves. Just a bit of understanding is all that she deserves. That’s all that it takes sometimes, to get through these twists and turns, or watch this life mitigate to embers, on the night that she burned.

 

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