She’s slowly disappearing.
The artist, the creative,
The crazy.
She is being replaced.
The analytical, the theorist,
The Calm under all circumstances.
So you paint your skin with permanent ink,
And pierce your skin with loud colored metals,
And hope you recognize yourself in the mirror,
Through the work professional attire,
And the fake smiles.
You try to keep yourself from disappearing.
Is it working?
