When your masks of pretend and deceit fall away,
I’ll still be me.
When your words slip, but cannot persuade,
I’ll be the brutality that cuts the cord,
in quiet whispers and kindness on the wind,
ending in inevitable silence.
You might see my visage crack, turning into ethereal ash,
yet I’ll still be me.
For I do not exist for you. Or the world.
I exist for me.
And when that silence descends like a fiery torrent of disbelief,
a burning blanket of loss and regret,
I will still be me.
You will wish with a guttural moan, that I was still there.