sometimes i worry
i'm just slipping a mask
over these hollow bones;
hearing it click into place,
porcelain and perfect,
and knowing i can be happy
that way.
i wouldn't even know it was there.
that's the craftsmanship
of the mask.
wearing it, i wouldn't have to deal with
what was underneath, or, worse,
what wasn't.
it would save the pain,
for now.
and make it worse later.
but that little voice inside me
wouldn't care.
doesn't care.
she knows me far better
than i do.
she controls these kinds of things.
and yes, i am scared of her.
i know what it looks like,
this mask:
a clockwork clown,
with a wind-up wave
and a painted smile.
and yet you'd never know the difference.
so when i look in the mirror
all i can see is that familiar face,
asking too many questions
that i can't answer.
but her words haunt me:
which is scarier, becka—
that you might be empty
under this mask,
or that you can't tell the difference
anymore?
and
if you knew for sure
that you were wearing it
would you even want to take it off?
she's right.
but the thing is,
if you wear it for too long,
you suffocate.
i suppose only time will tell.
