I like my masks,
I suppose conclusively.
I stay behind them
When
I am posed with
Judgement.

Will they like me?
Will they ignore it?

I bear my heart
And imagine how
Delicious it will
Be on the palate
Of my peers.

I wait.
I want.
I wither.

I like my masks,
I conclude supposedly.
I wear them as I wait for
A reply from
Another human being.

How do they stay silent?
Can they not hear my heart
Begging for approval?
Can they even speak?

I wish.
I weep.
I wither.

I like my masks,
I guess warily.
I cry alone because
No one tells me
I’m good.

Am I enough?
Why won’t they tell me?

I wither.
I wait.
I stop.

I hate my masks,
I roar passionately.
I tear them in my
Relent to endless thoughts.

I’m not enough.
My heart is bleeding
And stale with peering
Compliance.

My (he)art is stiff and
Lifeless, a husk of
What I meant to say.
No wonder.

I breathe.
I break.
I brave.

Their silence is not
My fault. My mind
Is culpable for the death
Of my heart.

My mind weeps in
The bleeds of my
Artisan trade, so
That I pity myself.

Screams compliant
And relent into
My stomach:
A wrenching feeling.

I can’t end it.

So I stop.

I breathe again.
I close my eyes.

I don’t have masks,
I decide conclusively.
I write and I care not,
For this is myself and
No one else.

I brave.
I breathe.
I believe.