Where once we were friends, we have turned our backs
and our work to opposing sides:
you to the glamour,
I to the grind.
Where you create false beauty where little exists
and cover the ugly truth,
I will always be close behind,
digging it back up.
Does it kill you to wear that painted smile,
and take only what they feed you,
the glitter they shove down your throat?
Do you still dream that someday they’ll let you speak
the sparks which you used to feel,
now tucked far deep and away?
The best of your life far hidden away,
unknown to the wolf pack you’ve joined,
the world left wanting of your fervor, placated
with your cheap gifts of fleeting magic.
Where once we were friends, I have turned my back
to a back which has turned on itself,
to a life resigned to artificiality,
to a life dead of life, dead of fury.
For I could not bear to watch you eaten alive,
not to know that you welcomed each bite
which came with a flourish of grandeur,
quelling each scream from inside.
And though I’ll never do much to halt an industry
which takes a generation’s brilliant minds
and gives them more glorious distractions,
and keeps their eyes on skin and teeth and hair,
I must continue on without you,
for there is no help for traitors to themselves.