What do you see
when you look at me?
The mask I wear to
present to the world?
Or, do you truly see me,
the real me hidden behind?
Do you see the scars
and look away in disgust?
See the broken and
look on me with pity?
My pain, my scars,
they are my story.
Do I dare let you read it?
Will you turn the pages quickly,
or slowly take your time?
When you're finished,
will I become a book forgotten on a shelf,
or a cherished read,
read time and time again;
committed to memory?
If I gave myself to you completely,
no masks,
would you look at me with eyes of love
or hand me back my mask and say...
"You look better this way."