The mask you always wore
now hangs up on the wall, collecting
dust in the gaps of its fine sequins and folds of silken cloth,
its paint chipped and framework cracked.
It’s an antique, a reminder of what was before
you allowed your real face to be seen.
Emotion now plays in your eyes and the swell of your cheeks,
tears long held back allowed to escape, caught and crystalised
to look within them and see the cause unclouded.
The uncertainty of allowing yourself to be loved,
to have someone willing to see all of you
and not give a damn about anyone else’s opinion of you,
for you are you and that is who they wish to spend time with.
The mask need never be worn again.
Treeshallow Musings 