Masks

(Because everyone around us pretend to be someone they are not so do we, agree or not. It's so difficult to be myself that the only person I believe I truly am is when I am alone.)
I hope it's youThe 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 canReflect 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 gray 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 masksStuck to their skinKnowing not the thin boundariesFor they have, over the time, erased,A part of me dies for ever.I fancy that they would return somedayDigging graves for their fancy masks.
They don’t.
Every morning I waitWhile I see prettier masks, coloured yellow and peach,Hiding the red, the dark gray and the green.I hope it's youAs 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.