Pretty imperfect

They tell beautiful stories
to the ugly children
who never knew anything else.
They fill their heads
with falsehoods and lies
that not even the storytellers have seen.
They shower them with praises
of their imaginary perfection
that dance and mix in their dreams.
They, with their skewed realities,
their hidden resentment,
their deformities,
tell the young minds what is
(or isn't)
to have them hate and resent
and pass it on.

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They live and breathe
and fall down together
seizing and spazzing
paying their dues,
putting up with it like they have to.

Others choke each other
to asphyxiation
and still manage to let go
and move on.

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I want to tell you all my secrets,
but it seems I've forgotten what to say.
I could tell you everything,
but I know what you'll think of me
if I do,
and that you'll leave.


I don't say anything.
I keep quiet.
I hide it all away.
Then I watch you leave,
glued to this spot,
and don't bother to open my mouth
to ask you why.