Yesterday he painted his face on

And already it's fading.

I offered to help, but I knew he'd turn me down.

His wings—stained glass and velvet—are wilting

And I can only hand him paper flowers,

Waiting to wipe away the tears.


Tomorrow, I want to tell him, it'll all get better.

He wouldn't listen, even if it were the truth.

Instead, the mask peels, showing him for what he really is—

Just a broken, beautiful boy who used to be so much more.


He takes the paper roses and gives me a false smile.

I miss the days when he trusted me more,

When he believed I'd stand beside him come anything.

Because I still wait for him to acknowledge all I've done,

And he never, ever will—

He just paints his face on and pretends he doesn't care.


It's getting tiresome, darling.

It's getting very tiresome,

And I'm about done with this grief.


I hand him paper flowers,

An unscented, glorious bouquet as he steps off the stage.

The crowd roars and applauds;

His smile is painted on.

He hates this—and I don't understand why.

It was his passion, once,

All he loved, everything he was.

He takes the flowers with dead eyes

And ignores the audience,

Stalking backstage, his mask falling.


His feathers litter the ground.

Stooping, I pick one up;

It glitters, softer than a chick's down,

And I stuff it in my pocket

As the cleaners sweep the floor.

I wait for him to come back,

Bright smile in place, eyes shining with joy and hope—

I alone will see the tears.


I can only hand him paper flowers.

He won't let me do more.


It's getting tiresome, darling.

It's getting very tiresome,

And I'm about done with this grief.