(Because everyone around us pretends to be someone they are not and, maybe, so do we.
Maybe the person you truly are is only when you're all by yourself.)
Maybe the person you truly are is only when you're all by yourself.)
The Face you show me every morning,
For I have torn Masks before,
I have detached pretty pink masks from dark red faces,
I have burned those wooden masks so that they can
Reflect the faces they hide.
They don't.
They veil a different anatomy altogether,
A face that only a mother could truly love,
A face that would push me to trauma for a few months,
A face that brings along depression and loneliness.
I have fancied those faces would one day turn white,
Or a lighter shade of grey or blue.
They don't.
They bathe with Blood every night I kiss them goodnight.
They have bathed in the blood they stole from someone else alike.
Every time I pull out such masks
Stuck to their skin
Knowing not the thin boundaries
For they have, over the time, erased,
A part of me dies for ever.
I fancy that they would return someday
Digging graves for their fancy masks.
They don’t.
Every morning I wait
While I see prettier masks, coloured yellow and peach,
Hiding the red, the dark grey and the green.
I hope it's you
As I touch your face,
My fingers searching for boundaries made.
I fail to find the thin lines on your face,
I hope they are wrinkles of the man I date.
You steal a kiss and I check if it's blood on your lips,
I can't find signs of your mask, so I wear one instead.
This post first appeared on Selling As For Sale By Owner Is Beneficial, please read the originial post: here
