mascara I wore runs down my face,
in a cancelled prayer,
for my belief has been found untrue
and already this new,
glamorous skin is itching with disgrace.
I called on you to rescue me.
I tell you now to abort this self
before I'm discovered, blood-clotted and strange,
and fatally dependent on dreams;
before I am given a name.
prospects of a Heaven or Hell
rust against my hands,
and the sleek attraction of this place, here,
only oxidizes the fear,
that I have no great stories left to tell.