Masks

(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.)

I hope it's you

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.