The Mask

It's this mask,
I cling to,
I need.
If they knew who I really am,
they'd leave.

It's cracking,
fading,
this mask,
made of clay.
They're beginning to leave.

My true self,
the uncontrolable,
demon of sadness,
pain,
deprivation,
anger,
within me.

They're leaving me,
I try to paste,
tape,
it back togethor.
I cling,
to the shards,
of what I once was,
to them.

They're gone.