The Mask

The Mask She smiles, just with her mouth, her eyes are feeling pain. She says she’s fine, okay, but in her heart it’s rain. So hard to just get up, leave that safe, cosy bed. She looks in the mirror, sees the mess in her head. She argues with herself. Why can’t she enjoy sun instead of feeling clouds, heavy, weighing her down. But she must face the day, with people, and everything. Sighs, sees a soaring bird, wishes she had its wings. So she paints on her mouth, and she powders her face, then she blushes her cheeks, now the mask is in place. Ruth Mawdsley 11/3/20