You look down with a weary old mask stitched on the skin of your face. It’s shapes are perfectly moulded to prevent from breaking. Your glass eyes can only gaze in to the fog that surrounds your head. You find it difficult to find a way through this labyrinth of shattered dreams, it is a place you banned from your so gently faking life. The rusty joints of your fingers creak as your hands grope into the black nothingness in front of your eyes and you try to reach further by stepping forth and back again. The way your mouth moves up and down looks like some sort of mechanical-robot function, while the words you spit out like bitter sundryed fruits sound sweet and harmonic in one’s ears. Not that I walk in that trap of yours with open eyes as I can feel the captive hate you release bit by bit floating on those bittersweet words piercing my skin. I take notice of the white stained scars on your arms and realise that what you hold inside is greater than everything you have released before. I can not understand why you chain those emotions in fright for another to find. You’ve become a living doll, wrapped in toilet paper, sealed in plastic. It has no use, once it’s broken you throw it away. You’ve thrown yourself away and everything with it. So now you can only sit and listen, can only watch while your hands are bound to the wall and the dress you wear starts to choke you with each movement. Have you ever regret the roads you’ve walked, the fields you’ve crossed, did you ever submit to hope on a second chance? Maybe you’ve already foreseen you won’t get one, the only way out is the trashcan but you reject it’s smell in fear of being a streetwhore which label you already wear. You only haven’t noticed yet.