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Breaking Point

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They flutter,
butterfly breaths,
flitting to your hair,
your face,
and back again,
fixing the unseen
imperfections
of your perfect
facade.

The mirage
staring back at you
is almost enough.
It may flicker
and fade
at times
but nobody sees
or cares enough
to look.

The armor
you’ve built up
around you,
the shell,
the mask,
is beginning
to crack.

Hairline slivers
weave their way
down your face.
A cascade of splinters
line your back,
circling your arms and
entwining your fingers.

No one notices.

They don’t see
the single tear drop
trailing down
your cheek.
They don’t realize
the frequent trips
to the bathroom
aren’t just some


freak bladder problem.
They don’t care about
the sleepless nights
filled with trepidation
as clatters, bangs,
and screams
fill the night air.

To them,
your are a masterpiece,
a work of art,
a goal
they’ll never reach.

Perfect.

Too bad
they didn’t bother
to take a closer look
when the walls
you’ve built up
finally reach their
breaking point.




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