so many
love the idea of me
and so few
love who i am
they love the painted, tainted
display
but hate
the raw flesh underneath
i paint myself over and over again
just to hear them say they're proud
as i wipe off my display each night
i'm left to hold my broken self
the colors i bleed don't fit their pallete
so i coat myself in theirs
all to feel what looks like love
warm, but conditional
my back is breaking
from the heavy burden
of this facade
