Our dance is electrifying. The way we throw our hands in the air. The way we stamp our feet in the hope the marbles crack. The way our dreadlocks drip sweat like mopsticks. Our laughter is healthy. We scream things indecipherable,our fist bumping fists, our expression a message of what our friends have missed.Our face is cute like a toy poodle's. Our eyes are lit with expectation. Our forehead is disabled to furrows; our expression perfect like good makeup underneath a layer of waxing spray. We are happy—happy so much that people want to be us.But it's all appearances.Our soul is a stranded skeleton, weak bones falling with our every step. From our eyes gush fluids, salty and bloody. Standing in the centre of the party, many an eye admiring, we are lonely souls—lonely souls contemplating the heat of satan's bossom.We aren't beautiful. Inside our faces stroll giant soldier ants, biting. Our nerves are intertwined with mines. Every second, every minute, things die in us.It's all appearances. Our show of strength, whereas within, we are little things curled over by the digits of prey birds.![images.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmXWHo7FUyhcEAruqDkjcjnZpWp4vDEv8J7UNMWkTtyZLz/images.jpg)