You walk around so proudly,

whitewashed and pristine,

plastic smile painted on,

and eyes so very empty.

Who is it that you think you’re fooling,

except the blind you lead along

as if by a leash?

You wear your mask

without any flaws,

fitted so tightly against your face,

but what lies below that porcelain surface?

Is it not a dead man’s bones,

rotten with decay?

Are you not a tomb?

So why do you advertise

such a perfect life?

Are you not as broken as we?

All of humanity to some degree

living each in our own way

with fractured pieces

and fragmented souls.

Yet you pretend in arrogance

and flaunt about your insolence

as if we were all too stupid to know the difference.

How tirelessly you parade yourself,

such a charade, such a charade,

not ever knowing

that it’s only in vulnerability

that we can truly be beautiful,

and it’s only in transparency

that we can ever be truly known.

Have you pretended so long

that you no longer even know

what is truth

and what is a lie?

Is there any understanding

that you’re no more than a fucking charlatan?

You’re a fraud and a hypocrite,

a wolf in sheep’s clothing,

but whose eyes are truly blinded?

Whose minds are truly darkened?

Who is it to be pitied most?

Is it those who know their maladies,

or the one whose sickness is always hidden

behind the mask of perfection?