The Masks I Wear To Breath

Each morning, I wake to the quiet hum

of the self I no longer recognize.

My face soft clay reshapes in the mirror,

a gallery of disguises laid out like prayers

to be whispered into survival.

I press on the smile gentle, practiced

the one that keeps others comfortable,

that says I’m fine without ever meaning it.

Behind it, a storm claws at the walls of my ribs,

hungry to be seen, yet terrified of sight.

Some masks are silk and kindness,

woven from empathy and exhaustion

I wear them to soothe, to listen, to hold

the weight that isn’t mine

because it feels safer than dropping my own.

Others are iron, cold and exacting\

they clang when I walk,

hiding trembling beneath armor.

I tell myself it’s strength,

though it tastes like rust and loneliness.

There are moments rare, trembling

when I almost forget the need for costume.

When laughter slips through unguarded lips,

and I glimpse the raw, unmasked pulse

of who I was before the world demanded masks.

But the air burns there, in that naked place,

too bright, too sharp, too real.

So I return to my collection,

carefully choosing which face

will let me make it through another day.

And though I ache beneath the layers,

I know the truth:

these masks are not deceit

they are survival,

the art of breathing in a world

that only loves what it can name.

Still, I dream quietly, fiercely

of a night when I can lay them all down,

bare-faced beneath a forgiving moon,

and simply exist unmade, unhidden,

and wholly, tremblingly, me.