I wake up wearing a face I didn’t earn,
stitched on sometime in my sleep.
It fits well enough to fool the daylight,
but it rubs my skin raw underneath.

I lie with a holy mouth.
Not to harm—
to be held, to be spared, to be wanted.

Truth feels too heavy for my body,
so I feed it to the dark in pieces.
At night, alone, I peel myself open,
searching for something solid inside.

You’re the star of the masquerade,
but I am the costume collapsing inward.
My ribs are boning pins,
my smile a hinge rusted with spit and blood.
When I peel myself back, it doesn’t stop.

Skin gives way to more disguises—
muscle practicing politeness,
organs learning how to perform.
I search my body for something true.

All I find are fingerprints,
thumbprints pressed into my liver, my throat,
proof I’ve been handled, not known.

If there was ever a real me,
she dissolved in the wearing.
Now I am teeth snapping in the dark,
applause for a self I can’t remember.

---

𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤

Pretty words for ugly things.

• Buried Correspondence
• Poetry
• Stories
• Uncategorized