You walk through the world,
face a smile
and eyes that pretend to see
the good in everything—
but I see the truth behind your mask,
the way your words twist,
warped and bent
to make your wrongs feel right.

You credit your cruelty
as strength,
your lies as protection,
your indifference as wisdom.
You wear your selfishness
like a crown,
expecting applause
for every moment you take
without giving.

You’ve convinced yourself
that the world owes you,
that your bad behavior is justified,
a defense against the chaos
you’ve created in your own mind.
But I see the cracks,
the way you hide behind excuses
that never touch the heart of the matter—
you’re afraid
to be wrong.
Afraid to face what you’ve done.

So you twist the truth
into something you can live with,
like a child who thinks
the lie is safer than the reality.
You don’t see it,
but your cruelty comes from fear—
fear of being exposed,
fear of being seen for who you really are.
But we all see it,
even if we don’t speak it.

You credit your behavior
like it’s an act of power,
but in the end,
it’s only a mask—
a fragile thing,
waiting to crack.