Masked

 You have scars all over you, a few cuts on wrist,and cracks in your heart.You wear these flaws like they’ve always been there .you wear them like your diary wears ink of your poetry.It soaks the words and breathes in solace almost as if the pain they carry is not a rope tied around their neck rather,it’s like a painting you’ve kept in storage for long enough to doubt its existence but not enough to abandon those words which you wrap yourself with like a blanket in winters,raindrops in spring,and leaves in autumn.You let them consume you and break you because these scars,
wounds, and cracks they don’t present themselves.You burn in solace of the words you write and let poetry wrap you so tight in its arms that your bones start creaking
in oblivion wondering how much more
you can take until these words reach your soul and you are left with no one or nothing
to lose anymore.