It should not feel so virtuous, this vice.
The sacrifice of self brings only pain,
and like a gambler, drawn to rattling dice
I lost all in my twisted quest to gain.

As truly as the mask melds with the face
and dreams reveal the secrets left unsaid,
internal struggle leaves no outward trace
and truth and fiction twine inside my head.

The unseen scars are quickly cloaked in smiles
as if the act could make them disappear
a quiet guilt will always veil my trials
the edge of light and dark is far from clear.

It's not as if I try to cause this hurt
I can't go back- to what would I revert?