Fitting the Mask


It’s beautiful, isn’t it? But you would do well to not earn one of your own. You know why I wear this mask. You know who gave it to me. It’s because of my face, my voice.  So I live behind it, within it. It is who I am now, the mask.

The scarring? Oh, don’t worry about that. It doesn’t hurt much anymore. It’s fine.

Can you touch it? Touch me? Well, that seems a little forward, a bit intimate a caress but, yes, you may. Why does your brow wrinkle when you look into my eyes? Yours are a fascinating green-grey. How lovely!

No, you would do well not to earn a mask of your own. Trust me. It is not for everyone. But this one is for me. This one is me. Smooth, perfect, flawless, a bit of gold to the pout, a bit of silver to the blink. Is that not why you came? Is that not why you are here? Why you paid your money at the door? Is not Perfection the god whose robe hem you came to touch?

If you think not, then you have tricked yourself, and you may be fit for a mask of your own after all.

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