Masked
I’m supposed to be dreaming,
But that’s hard when I’m staring reality in the face,
A face of placid eyes, dark crevices that leave them looking far too old to be so young.
Reality has a male’s mask but feminine features that seep so silent and silky
Through the finger-poked eye holes in the cheap plastic.
Reality is me in the mirror, when I stare at myself
And touch the cheek with no hair and an undesirable spherical shape.
How can I dream when I feel like a mime?
Copying my fellow clowns who think they have it right
With their manly neck ruffles and so unfeminine giant shoes.
They have a color scheme,
Only color is black and white because
Black and white are all there is when
Only two groups exist as presented by the binary.
A chess board, pieces aligned—
White goes first. What does that say?
There always has to be a first.
Because if you’re not first, you’re second,
And if you’re second, you’re last.
Scraps on the table—thrown to the dog,
A person’s leftovers, discards, waste is a treat
To the subhuman.
How is it that I wag my tail when I see someone recognize me
By my mask?
My mask is glued to the lining of my face,
Weaved together, sinew and plastic.
I cannot detach it, for my mask is me—No, really—
It’s only a mask because I was born with something underneath.
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