Golden Boy

You have a mask to fit every occasion, a full costume to convince them all you're made of gold. You lick your lips just to taste your own lies, the fruit of your labor a pretty facade. Your white picket fence is your prison. Your face tells no stories, your mouth speaks no truths. You white-knuckle the wheel, swerving through my disaster, knocking over trash cans and leaving a wake of casualties, with your could haves and should haves, your memories of a half-empty Boulder apartment, where you took what you wanted from me, and then left to the sound of wedding bells. Your paint is chipping, and I see that underneath, you're as ugly as the rest of the world, and maybe more sinister still, because everyone still looks at you and sees what you want them to see.