I wear anger on my back, sadness on my sleeve,

put my pride on my chest, next to where compassion lies,

paint my ego across my face, over the feeble irrational morality I hold.

Telling myself not to be fool again by hope,

yet I kept falling for its intoxicating white lies.

I hide it under my heels, just so I can pretend I could crush it completely — knowing I wouldn't.

I do not experience pain, nor do I understand remorse,

although there is a space for both at the bottom of my gut, along with the weight of disappointments.

Don't believe in love, but

I'd go to great length for strangers' smiles,

dumbly morph their cursory thanks and brief glances my way into something genuine.

I have difficulty with patience and persistence,

never able to keep them close,

nor have them for long.

They fade away — sometimes abruptly, sometimes gradual.

Sometimes I notice, sometimes I don't.

Doesn't quite matter.

They are forgotten, cast aside before their due date,

the grating marks they left behind disappeared in a wash of ignorance bliss and content,

drowned out by other emotions.