Fragmented

I'm not used to this,
the feeling of an open wound
hemorrhaging and yearning for unguent calm
The feeling of a mannequin left naked in a main street window
The sagging wallpaper threatening to fall and expose my scribbles of madness
to a room full of prim and pomp
The heat leaves me writhing my clothes
The anxiety no longer needs this costume
The stray hair loosened from my meticulous bun,
savagely hanging, mocking
My sweet smile and tight neck challenge one another
The spreading pink hue of realization
emblazoned on my neck and chest
The betrayal of it all sinks deep inside

"Is anyone else warm?" has various meanings right now

'Can anyone else admit that playing a role for the sake of being liked and accepted is absolute fuckery and an abhorrent deviation of human nature?'
The wallpaper holds much more effectively then my tongue despite it's age, and mine.
I slip, I expose to them a true taste of who I really am.

The gasps are amusing, the sudden exodus a hilarity. The remaining solitude is golden.

Just the evening shadows and I, the way the universe intended.