One and the same
She is me, and I am her
Cassandra is a manifestation of who I want to be
The drawn-up form of my perfection
And I am the clumsy fool
Masquerading my faults in writing
Cassandra writes her feelings
I lock mine up
Must I choose between identities?
Can I not carry on this charade?
Am I not sincere enough?
Can the two not exist as one?