You hide behind hills,

Curves of rock snaking up,

Strangling

The lakes and the rivers--

Your tears.

And the blades of grass, a fine-woven net

To catch,

To cut,

To keep

You and your

Stone heart, pulsing still,

Locked away in the dirt,

Encircled by twin paths,

Deeply trod,

That never meet

Each other or your heart,

For though they may be trakked to the top,

And they might think they see you,

You hug a tight, fine mist close

To your chest,

And you pretend to want it,

To cherish it,

Hold it close,

But it is just another mirage,

Like a shard of glass you hold and

Pretend it doesn't cut

Whilst it slices deeper,

Until your blood becomes the cover,

Still, your illusions mislead you:

Your mist,

It drowns you whilst

You think you breathe.

Your hills,

A castle

You built to burn

Your grass,

It breaks with a single finger, like

Your mind at the thought of outside.

And your rivers,

Your tears that gnaw

Deep into the fragments of your face,

Opening canyons because

You think that the rain means no one can see

The tears,

The shadows in your eyes,

And the coal warpaint underneath that

You've tried to wipe off

Because you want no one to know that

You tried,

And you failed

So you hold it tight, almost at your heart,

Wishing it was a knife,

But instead it just becomes

Another

Mask,

Because you hide behind hills,

And I hide behind mountains.