Martyr

I've gotten into a bad habit

-a new aged fad-

of martyring myself

whenever you're near. 

Because your eyes are like the dirt and the grass,

I want to be buried under, 

and your smile shines so bright,

it leads me asunder.

And the pain I feel isn't real

-so they say-

but I feel it all the same,

doubling me over in shame.