Poetry collection

the exhausting art of a chameleon

I’ve learned the skill of subtle trade,
to wear the colors others made.
A mirrored mask, a borrowed tone,
yet never quite a skin my own.

Each room demands a different hue,
a thousand shades I slip into.
I smile the smile they want to see,
while hiding what is truly me.

It seems a gift—this quiet blend,
to bend, to mold, to not offend.
But every shift extracts its cost,
a piece of self forever lost.

And when the lights at last grow dim,
I shed the day, retreat within.
The colors fade, the silence near—
yet even then, I’m never clear.

For who I am beneath the veil,
is fragile, flickering, frail.
The art of blending keeps me whole,
and yet it slowly eats my soul.