Cold heart

Everybody wears a mask, and during our life, we polish it, adapt it to the image we want to see reflected on the mirror, and tell ourselves, this is me. We repeat it until we no longer remember who we are, deluded into believing that we are the image on the mirror, forgetting that there's something under the mask. Someone. The real us.

I have chosen ice and blades for my mask, and I have called it Patience. I can listen to you as long as you don't walk too close. Close to my heart, or close in your words and deeds to the memories of who I was once, which is someone that I now despise.

When you reach me, the blades of my mask will hurt the two of us. I am used to live with my bleeding wounds, but you will walk away, and when you turn around to ask me why I did hurt you, then you will realize about the smiling ice on the mask. You will leave me behind saying "she deserves it, she has a horrible cold heart." And I will turn around and go back to my dark places, hiding my tears and painting nightmares with them, under the stinging comfort provided by my perfect, cold mask.