Masquerade

she always scorned makeup as false and shallow; beauty of the face is hardly a competitor for the beauty of the heart, of which her own is rendered useless by a hairline fracture.

but in truth she wears the most elaborate mask and twirls among her own shadows to the music of obscure life.

that thick papier-mâché shields them from the demons in her eyes, insanity dragging her into the deepest of pits, for there was something out of place - and indeed, what was her place in the world?

that thick papier-mâché shields her from their persistent, insignificant, profound, eternal ghosts, and his radiant ghost, name carved into her mind by the tattoo needle of her thoughts, and the ink, the ink is so beautiful.

but careful - for he should rip the feathers from her mask for want of truth, and her gentle shyness will flutter to the ground in black snow, heart shredded; the bare mask has a hard surface and one should not test its edge.

multicolored sequins glitter, at first glance an expression of her personality; look closer and one sees only their own reflection.

see the lines of gold paint swooping across the black to taper and fade? the ventricles and atria have sacrificed much; that is her retreat to the comfort of her own darkness in the folds of her flowing dress, for they are not rigid.

and yet he tore the hem, and it was made of her; the painful relief of pressing ice to feverish skin for too long until the trembling begins.

and yet he tore the hem, and it was made of her; one edge was him, the other herself. for she is her own barrier and iron will of some unfathomable reason must restrict iron will of human desire.

those gems decorate her cheeks and all turn to admire their deep round glow through all the layers; it's heard that her tears are more valuable though only she knows that the tears well in the tears of the fabric of her burdened mind, heavy with storm.

nylon vibration wails her abandoned dream, left to rot among feeble hopes that somehow outshine the stars in all their distorted illusion; zoom out and one finds the flawless surface of fabricated bliss, undisturbed by her wild ponderings.

faking strength, she dons her costume and saunters into blind night, depression fermented into sour rashness, ready to accept any future and welcome any pain, daring him to slip a poisoned knife in her heart with all his endearing gentleness.

and she is every inch the music,

every note the dance.