She wears hypocrisy.

She doesn't sleep anymore because the days
slide by when she doesn't have to think, and
it's easier to function when the faces blur and
memories wash together until her life becomes
one large rinsed out sentiment that she may
or may not remember. She doesn't know who
she is anymore, but honestly, who cares.

Sunday afternoon brings those fat red capsules
to keep her company, and monday morning calls
on little white pills that no body will see. Those
are the secrets she hides in her drawers, saving
until the wounds heal and the pressure starts
building. And pow. Like an explosion. Once, she
tried to tell you, explain to you her fireworks, but
you're too wrapped up in yourself to notice a
cry for help, anyway.

She crept through the window one night while the
rain fell, and made it to Pontiac before the sun rose
and the chemicals began to fade. They knew where
to find her; she has no where else to go. And if you
ask them of it now, they'll lie. She's perfect.

She breaks hearts, and tells lies, and sculpts beautiful
stories as to why she doesn't glow the way she should.
But with fireworks in her eyes and blood on her tongue,
she's hardly human anymore. So when he tastes of
cigars and alcohol and fear, she'll close her eyes and
let go; plastering on an ivory smile while she explodes.
And if you ask her of it now, she'll lie. She's perfect.