Pens and Pages

( 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,