Masks we wear, and shed, and wear again,
a silent language, etched in fleeting lines.
The lift of a brow, a question unspoken,
a judgment whispered, a secret known.
The curl of a lip, a dismissive flick,
contempt's sharp edge, a silent, cutting brick.
Eyes, windows, they say, but curtains too,
veiling depths of joy, and shadowed, aching blue.
A forced smile, stretched...
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