A pinnacle of safety is in the shadows of self-doubt.
I paint my lips with the false ideals I crave
with curls that hold only because of the unmoving fears that keep me stable.
A familiar comfort stays when people leave you.
A reliance of ironed dresses and iced cakes and smoothed nail varnish is kept.
No one can hurt you if you are stitched together with the prettiest of threads.
No one can tear your trust piece by piece if the string never reaches their grasp.
No one can shatter your heart if the mosaic it has become never leaves its shelf in your bedroom.
And, lastly, no one can know you if you never know yourself.
A false but loved ideal.