She sloughs off her skin,
stepping out with heavy
feet to let her
coffin fall around her
piece by silk pale piece.

Raw and bleeding,
the water encases her in
a liquid embrace, as
calm as a mother's arms
as quiet as death at midnight.

Naked and alone
the water turning red with
truth and thoughts held
close, she washes away the
weighted thoughts of a future unknown.

What life she must lead,
to hide behind closed doors, locked
against the eyes of those
she so sweetly calls
her dearest friends.

But soon she is clean of filth
and doubt and steps out
into the gleaming lights of reality,
facing again the impeccable
glass of imperfection and truth.

She denies the facts and
slowly recovers, recollects
the pieces of a lie
formed through years
of trying to belong to others.

And slowly, like a geisha,
she paints on a face strange
and familiar, her practiced
hands trembling slightly,
the first crack in a porcelain mask.

It is then she stops,
caught on a stray thought
that has crept from the depths
of reddened water, the  realization
that the geisha died long ago.