some mornings
I fasten a face to my own
before the mirror has finished
telling the truth

one for kindness
that swallows its own hunger

one for certainty
stitched together
from borrowed words

one for laughter
light enough
to keep questions
from settling on my shoulders

I wear them
because the world
is full of bright rooms
where vulnerability echoes louder
than confidence ever does

by noon
I have forgotten
which smile belongs to survival
and which one
was born with me

the masks are patient things
they learn the shape of our breath
they memorize our silences
they become so fluent
in our names
that even our reflections
hesitate

still there are moments

rain on an empty street
a hand that does not ask me
to be anything
the long forgiving conversation
between dusk and the first star

in those moments
the straps loosen
the borrowed faces
slide quietly to the floor
without accusation

underneath
is not perfection

only skin
scarred by every season
it refused to stop feeling

only eyes
still searching for wonder
after years of pretending
they had already found it

perhaps that is all
a human life has ever asked
not to live without masks
for sometimes they are shelter

sometimes armor
sometimes the bridge
across impossible days

but to remember
they are not our bones

and when night arrives
to set them beside the bed
like shoes that carried us home
so that sleep
may recognize our true face
and morning
if it is gentle
may find us
with nothing left to hide
except the light
we have mistaken
for weakness