Stripping Masks

If masks were ideas

I’ve worn more than most –

Buried in plain sight,

An obfuscate ghost.

Beliefs held like truth

Descended for days…

Distanced me from hearts

That bled the same way.

The irony of made-truth: it exists then it’s made,

Yet never fully made ’til fully given away.

And killing made-truths

Makes belief feel more real;

Or, at least, as it is –

An unknown that we feel.

So I’m peeling these masks

One by one, they each die.

For the first time I hear

Fresh – a voice that is mine.

No more mighty walls. No more wielded hells.

Just me stripping masks in plain sight til I’m well.