Choosing my confessions

Everyday we speak and you think you know
Think you see my faults
even the things I don’t show.

You think I’m happy because I tell you I am.
You misread the signals
They’re in a language you don’t understand.

For others I’m a glass that they can see straight through,
but really it’s a mirror, a reflection of you.
We see in each other what we think we want,
All with imperfections
The mirror is cracked.

But I choose my confessions, tailor my words.
I’m carving the mirror to match your image.
I’m giving you my life in parts.

I’m choosing the weapons I’ll allow people to use.
Whether I want to be decapitated or just left with a bruise.
Choosing my confessions from a well ordered system,
some of them erased, denied an existence,

I give to you of me what I want you to see,
always controlling my image.
The mirror that is me.