Mirage.

my disguise.

No one deserves to be fucked in disguise,
But it takes a gut wrenching effort to see the bruises in your waist,
When the lights are on.
And, you turn away from your version of compromise,
Of distraction,
From contemplating suicide,
Loneliness,
Homesickness.
And you throw your heart on the floor,
Like the cold clothes that stare at you,
Waiting passively to be snuck out again.
And, your gut has been spilled,
Every time you see the blood on the sheets,
Virginity is not a gift,
You know,
But losing modesty every damn time,
While you're trying to fake love, and orgasms,
That's a gift, my child.
No one deserves to be made love to in disguise as well.
The only honest pleasure you get is when you touch yourself,
Because you know there's no chance of escaping your own skin,
Or you would've otherwise.
And, like a burst of flimsy night,
Coughed up like fireworks,
You dare not linger.
And for what, anyway?
You never know,
The mirror might be your biggest masquerade.
And the pain settles into your marrow,
And it makes way into your ink stained dry sheets.
You lie raw, naked, your pen drenched in the blood of all the hearts you've devoured,
But you don't have time to spare to think about it.
After all, that's what you wanted,
Another night spilled into another poem.
So, you keep searching for vocabulary in the masks of everyone you touch.
Perhaps, your words would see everything this once,
And you wouldn't feel like,
You were lying.
Lying naked in disgust, of yet another pen that you've sucked dry.
The taste of dishonesty,
And false promises mean nothing to you anymore,
It all tastes like ink.
Inked, in your lips,
And perhaps they taste your words first, before they can ever taste you.