My face and body is an emotional disguise.
Insecurities, and the act of scrutinising imperfections,
Provides a veil to mask
The things that could kill me.
The things I won’t think.
The things that could happen.
The consumption of blankness.
The things beyond my imagination,
I assume, though, that I will never try.
To imitate the feeling.
So if I say I'm ugly,
Despair over lumps,
Think about exams,
And oh so important marks.
Then I will be ok.
Because they are my fears.
And they will never devour me from within.
