my eyes
scan the paper
that don't dare to reveal the truth
behind a curtain of vivacity
that i am too afraid to face
but upon my demise
the pages will slowly unravel
to announce not what i want
but what they want
and just like that i am no longer the author of my own story
but a ghost
a shell of my former self
doomed to hold a lie
that everyone but me will believe
or will i lie to myself too?
YOU ARE READING
language
Poetrythey want to shape me while i'm vulnerable; a clay piece made off for show. pageantry a display because apparently what i want is incoherent they want to use me as their weapon, make me speak what others want to hear, bare to my blood but they do n...
