You wear your charm
like a jewelled brooch,
only worn for public display.
Your smiles and kindness
are cut glass which sparkles
but has no real value,
gems of the imitation kind,
a cheap decoration,
a fake.
I hear you return.
You unclasp your brooch,
lay it aside
and reveal the underlying
fabric of your personality.
The roughly woven material,
flawed and coarse,
roughly stitched, ugly,
tears at my soft skin
with a sandpaper tongue
until it bleeds.