My soul burned with passion;
hopes,
dreams,
expectations.
But the fire was doused.
Doused by the people who always did it before me.

They excluded me.
They forgot I existed.
Now,
with the flame fizzled out,
I'm left with an ember;
a brooding, self-pitying, lonely ember.

They go about their business,
pushing me farther



away.
It is evident they’re happy without me,
Yet I still call them friends.

Then, my soul gushes fire.
Its spitting lava and pyroclastic flows destroy me
from the inside out.
But I won’t let my wounds show to them.
That means they’ve won.
Instead, I cover my ragged body with smiles.

But I worry this façade will break,
crumble,
disintegrate,
fail.
I fear I will be alone,
pathetic,
completely naked,
forgotten.

Perhaps I need help.
What kind, though?
Can I help myself?
Should I?
Will I do more damage than harm,
or do I have to rely on a complete stranger
to patch together the torn shreds I call my life?

I’ve made a decision.
I won’t accept help.
Instead, I will gingerly,
tenderly,
put myself back together.
I will tape,
staple,
glue the shards of life together
to make something that closely resembles a human.
Though the outside is seemingly normal
only the inside is me.
The inside can never be changed.
Behind my mask, I will always be the same,
unidentifiable,
scalded,
broken,
scarred,
lost,
scorned soul
I’ve always been.