Lighting cigarettes from tealights as the ice wind whispers at my neck.
Numb hands holding on to the edge.
Clutching at straws.

I don't know how much longer I can wear this mask, when inside I am crumbling like the cliffs into the sea.
An inevitable death, constant continual destruction, in silence, so slow that no one can see what is gradually slipping away.
When I am alone, the tears flow, burning my face, trying to get out after being locked away for so long.

Hiding this will break me.

This is called a compromise.
My brave face saves your guilt. 
Your subtlety saves my pain.
Hold up your end of the deal.
None of it is real.