Mask Me

An unmade bed is made for the unkept secrets we shared. For under the wrinkled covers Lies what we left behind. Blood stains our sheets and our hands. Even bleach can't wash the crimson from the thread. We left with no sign of who we are. We left behind tokens rejected from who we've become. Our masks lie beneath the wrinkled covers withering and decaying. Our masks with starry eyes and wide smiles. Our masks with love drunk expressions and blushing skin. Our masks we took from our face, when we stood in front of one another and shed our summer skin, spotted brown. I shed my skin for you, and you kissed the red flesh ever so tenderly, and then my trembling hand raised, and my mask fell. I shed myself for you, I showed you my true face, only to come to learn, the mask is what you loved.