You wear it like black lace-
This illness deft, sleek, and true-
Stretched across your bare back,
A petal-ridden residue.

The threads are sparse,
But they hide your wounds beneath.
Surely your skin is cold,
And shards have been shaken from your teeth.

This covering has never ruptured,
In fact, its layers have grown.
As people stare in awe at you,
Applauding your pain on their thrones.

Like an incredible piece of art,
They watch as you decay.
Ruins crumble, paint fades,
But black lace: it stays.

It gathers your tears,
Immortalizing your fragmented woe.
It suffocates you,
Twists you like a performer’s flow.

Beautiful though it seems,
Your dominance over your shadow ceases,
It scrapes away your layer of light,
And folds your mirth in its putrid creases.

It covers you, it protects you,
And this lace soothes your dripping veins.
But the only thing it staves off
Is your control over your own life’s reigns.