It's funny how
we, as people,
wear our faces like masks,
and then act surprised
when we don't find someone
who loves us for what is beneath.

I often feel naked
like a sword without a sheathe.
I walk around with my heart
drumming in my temples.
Always being aware of exactly
where my hands are at any given place
at any given time.

There is about as much strength in me
as there is citrus in lime stone.
It's all an illusion.
Because somewhere along the path,
I convinced myself that the strong
don't suffer the same as the weak.
The next thing I learned in life
is that suffering is a language
that we all speak.

So I wore my face like a mask,
brows carved downward into an expression
of barely concealed anger.
I tied my courage into a knot each day
like a kamikaze pilot's headband,
and somehow, in my own clueless way,
acted surprised when nobody bothered to
peel back my mask
and see the scared child within.