The Masquerade
Lately, I only feel beautiful when the mask is on.
Tame the wild— smooth every strand of hair, sculpt it into silence. Put in the effort, even if it’s just for the couch. Patch the missing pieces of myself into a flawless smile. No cracks allowed.
Creating the mask is its own kind of war.
Paint today’s face with steady hands— every emotion tucked neatly beneath. They say this face is the real me, the one they remember, the one they praise.
Liner wings the eyes into sharp perfection— blades curving upward, as if I could fly out of here. Lashes, long and reaching, searching for stars I can’t touch. Cheekbones lit like beacons. And lips— lined, shaped, filled with seduction. Irresistible.
A scent follows me like prophecy— it pulls them in, even from far away, Now, the mask is complete. Finally, I’m presentable.
But beneath it all— I'm still just the plain girl. An old shirt, no pants, just underwear and fatigue. Eyes sunken with sleepless nights, legs bare, scars etched like timelines— past, present, and what feels like the future too. No longer perfect. No longer seen.
The hair’s undone, wild or in a messy bun, just like I am.
I know I am beautiful. But it’s hard to believe it when the compliments only come with the costume.
This skin, this undone version— it isn’t desired. Not without the illusion: a flawless face, no lines, no grey, no age. Just the mask I’m supposed to wear.
I’ve learned to avoid the mirror unless she’s looking back— the one I made, not the one I am.
