Musings on Life from a Dead Girl

Mask

I once hard that people had three faces.

The face you wore for everyone.

The face you wore with those dearest to you.

And the face you wore only with yourself. 

I look at myself in the mirror every morning as I put on those masks.

The one I bear for the world.

The quiet girl whose opinions sway in the breeze as to not cause strife. 

I do not stand out this way.

This way I am safe.

When I come through the doors of my home I layer on another mask.

I am still quiet.

These people do not know me.

Not really.

How could they?

I am an excellent liar.

I play peacemaker and do what is expected.

This way I am safe.

At night I lie in bed staring up at the celling, the room around me littered with books, half-finished art pieces and flowers.

Littered with dreams of escape.

I remove the masks.

I lie there, bare, and vulnerable.

I am not safe.

 This way I am weak.

No one will see this, my final face.

My true face.

The face of the little girl forced to grow up, still afraid of the dark.

The face of the woman who cries herself to sleep, choking on the dusts of my crushed dreams.

I wear these masks because no one bothers to stay if I take them off.

No one cares enough to see my real face.

I like it better with the masks on anyways because it means I'm not alone.

It means I am safe.