you tell yourself.
The mask is forged from liquid pain and icy steel, and with it you spin tales and weave lies, lips flickering with a knowing smirk, expression cool with a confidence you don’t possess.
"I’ve got a plan," you say, and your mind words faster than your heart does; the words tumble out, eloquent and precise, and you have no idea what you’re saying,
just the white-hot desperation that you have to, you absolutely
to keep her alive.
She looks up at you, eyes trusting and honest and open and admiring, and your heart
because you hate yourself, you hate having to close yourself off from her, you hate that you can't say what you feel and you hate that you don’t understand
You hate hiding behind false confidence and shallow intelligence, because isn’t that your worst fear - that in the end, you’re nothing more than an empty shell of empty cleverness?
But you let your lips curve into a smirk and your head dip into a nod, and the game goes on.
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