The thing you put on each and every day.
The thing you create so that people wont underestimate.
You want to fit in, you want them to know you aren't weak and that you aren't sore; that you are them.
The thought is odd.
The mask is wrong.
But you put it on anyways because its like a morning tradition.
You brush your teeth and comb your hair, and then the mask is put on.
* * *
I look at myself straight in the face.
Through the mirror and into space.
I look away because I can't bear an ugly face.
The great disguise helps me get past my evil lies.
I feel pretty and beautiful at the least.
And then I know that people care.
They care about me.
Because at home all I know is that I'm like a little dog; begging for the food underneath the table with nothing left but my solemn fable.
It's all I have next to my disguise.
I cry at night.
I cut my wrists.
I of course don't believe in myths.
It's real; I've done it.
I scarcely can show it.
But all I know is that when I put on my fake disguise the people see me for a fake insize.
Because of me, because of the mask I thank the gods for getting past, the evil lies I put through myself of ever thinking, anyone cared.