Masked Dance

In the midst of comfortability, loss happens.

The preaching of self-love echoes in my mind in a delicately aggressive dance with self-hate, racing through every synapse, causing electrical shortages that feed my broken mind.

Repairing them seems futile.

So, I adjust my mask and continue on.

It’s okay to leave my shattered pieces on the ground—because I’m comfortable. Why sacrifice for the unknown?

The possibility that I won’t succeed?

So, I plant my feet firmly in the ground and smile, because at least I’m not struggling. I stand proud, gazing through a sheet of my falling broken pieces as a watching world cheers on—unfamiliar with a smile that I can’t call my own.

Days become months, until I stumble, scraping my knees on the pavement.

Realizing years have passed, and the fake happiness is so comfortable that I can’t remember how it truly feels.

I look at my life through new eyes and begin to see those around me—

the ones I’ve made plans with, only to never arrive.

The family I go months without talking to, only to occasionally pop in on.

The ones I know in my bones will be the collateral damage of a lost soul

winning the dance in my mind.