My Face, My Secrets

There’s one thing that bonds animal to man, That unites the wild with the caged, Those captivated within bondage and those roaming free; disengaged. At a first wandering gaze or slinking inquisitive eye, One may be misled in the assumption that this feature perhaps is a metaphorical good-bye; Maybe a symbolic nod to our differing upbringings through parallel surroundings, But, alas, this feature has no relation to our species’ housing. It’s not the way in which we all lay our head down at night to rest, Nor the sweet milk that flows from a mother’s nurturing breast. In fact, its a collection of things, A collection of features placed ever so gently upon the brain from which we think, The throat from which we speak, The nerves from which, with clear and distinct picture, with curiosity, we peek. As I ponder this conglomeration of perfectly placed skin, I look to my own and contemplate the secrets held within. This face of mine is a map of where I’ve been, And if you look long enough, you may find some buried memories hidden in my grin. My hairline, set slightly back upon my head, Has been pulled a little tighter every goddamned day. Throwing my curly chocolate hair into a tight tail on my scalp, I shoved my hands in my pockets and looked down, insecure and unpronounced. My eyes are a journey from the desert sands of India to the snowy ice caps of Ireland. Protruding ever so slightly from my face, They paint with gentle strokes a love story born within a medical school embrace. Let me lead you farther through this trip down memory lane, Your hand in mine as we traverse towards the features that remain. Thus, we stop at the nose, curved outwards and extending north, A fixed mix of my mother’s slim Caucasian heritage and my father’s ancestors in India, My nose not only smells the American cuisine we cook, But exists symbolically on my face as a marriage not always as perfect as those I used to find in my Cinderella story book. The two pinky plush lips perched upon my chin, Soft and delicate hold the words I want to scream out loud within. They keep me locked, guarded, safe. They are the sacred dam upon my face, Holding my secrets, my woes, my various mental illnesses I must not advertise for fear of public distaste. They open to breathe and to speak, To breathe and repeat. Repeat and repeat and repeat, Until, like most dams built by an unskilled architect, They will break and they will spill, and you may be surprised at what words will then fall at your feet.