A Reply to: Masks

I put on my face every day.
It takes time.
I check every crease and dry patch. I rub at my eyes and smooth down my cheeks. I look for the parts that are different so I may paint over them better.

Today I am tall and broad, a building that moves the sidewalk where it steps. Tarnished metals and great greys, sharp impersonal angles that speak for me. It says I am an obstacle, I am to be equally respected and forgotten. There are no smiles here today. The doors are closed.

I can be a photograph, a walking piece of nostalgia that traveled through time to take the last seat on the bus. Even purposeless feels important, red lips lining my words as I tell people to have a great day. They believe it, because I traveled through time to tell them. People believe red lipstick. They believe painted eyeliner when it wishes them good luck.

I can bury myself in words,let the book reflect my face where people look to the page creases to see my reaction. My eyes look past my glasses at talking bookmarks, environmental commas and paragraph pauses. If you needed something, ask the book. I’ve lost myself in it, you can read it across my face.

I look in the mirror at the face of the invisible man, the malleable topography of a person. The master of disguise. Thick paint to obscure the beating heart, because it is tender and whipped by the sun and strangers’ eyes. Every morning my face holds its breath as I place on the armor coat by coat, evening the smudges, painting a person I need to be.