The Art Of Being Fake

I look around me, everything is trance-forming.

Everyone around me, nothing but plastic statues.

Plastic.

Hard, solid, shiny plastic.

Nothing is real, it's all fake.

No soft flesh under the expensive, brand-name clothes.

Nothing but plastic, under the perfectly groomed hair.

All there is are flawlessly shaped mannequins.

When I look closer, I see that they are all the same.

No difference at all.

Except for me.

I hear a crack.

Someone is trying to break through.

Break through of this horrible trance.

But they can't get out, this is what they deserve.

That's what they all deserve.

To be trapped in hard, solid, shiny plastic.

© 97thedarkshadow