My conscience begs me to wear these masks of salvation.

My body cannot enter the bright world without a disguise.

I am frightened of the inevitable lonliness I aniticipate

if I ever expose my true naked face to the intimidating universe.

I strut the earth looking in the eyes of the convinced,

knowing they see someone I only intend for them to see.

My friends play, persuaded they accept me

when my true friends are the masks that ensure my acceptance.

My fondness for these extravagant facades

have grown into an addiction I no longer realize exists.

I am even, at desperate times, convinced

that the mask I'm wearing is my true face.

Yet it doesn't scare me, because I want more than anything

for it to replace the one I've spent a lifetime hiding.

And when I retreat to the shell of my inhabitance,

I remove the layers of masks,

reluctantly look up to the mirrior,

and see the unbearably blank face

that screams who I really am.