Mask Off
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
You, my love, will die.
You smile with sparks,
Heal with a touch,
But cut with the sword.
I love you but,
You are just a masquerade.
Andre squeezed his hand tighter against the whiskey glass. It would crush in his hand with just a little more force. He bit his lip hard before taking another gulp down. A drink should ease the pain—they say—but it doesn't. A gulp should drown the pain further into profound depths but it doesn't. Rather, he recounted all his aches down till the break. The accident, the rejections. His eyes stung from the tears he fought. Trying to hold his visible pain from the further display, gradually became more of a Herculean task. Red blaz
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