Poetry With Hart

The mirror judged in silence
her eye seeing all of me
in her glass pain
asking without speaking
as to why I stood before
her, masked and hidden
from her gaze.

I tried to tell her
it was necessary,
but necessary for who?
I tried to answer
it kept me safe
but she knew,
I was as much
a danger to me
as anyone else
so it was a lie too.

I tired to say it was habit,
my mother and her mother,
we all wore masks
carefully constructed calm
compliments to the ancestral
mask making matron
tying our expressions to
the needs of others,
eyes are the mirrors of the souls,
don’t you know?

And the mirror laughed
a trill of glass striking silver
as if to dare me, for once
take the mask off.
So I did…
at least…
I tried.

But another
was under the first
and then another
and another all with
different nicknames
different roles
different selves to be.

I ripped and tore
tore and ripped
plaster cracking
paper mâché crumbling
clay paint chip
drop smash crack,
till finally
the last mask shattered
concrete on the floor
and the face that stared back
in the mirror’s eye
was nothing more than
a silent rage.