the pageant

matters of the heart
make us the most practiced of liars.
we profess to have mended
and grown past our hurts
but rooted within
lies the same
fractured
infantile
soul
aching for warmth and comfort.
so adroit do we become
at putting on this
cavalier charade
that it becomes all at once
effortless -
impelling us to believe
in our own duplicity.
we scoff
at romance and lovers
as foolish and unnecessary
because we are too fearful
to admit
that's what we crave most.
so as our comeuppance
love cuts us
the deepest
and we cry
the hardest.