Autopilot

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My mind running on autopilot...
Forcing me into numbness.
My mask barely hiding the pain. 
Checking my camouflage often in the mirror...
Because I have ceased to be able to feel my expression change...
My muscles tight from pretending. 
Only emptiness stares back at me
From grey-green eyes. 
My burning pain is still concealed...
The hole in my chest not visible. 
I must carry on the charade until the room darkens, 
The inky blackness of night will be the only witness to my true appearance. 

To the desolation of being without my dream. 

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