The scars on my wrist represent pain;
- hurt which I wear just beneath my sleeve.
Also on my heart.
- Hidden, yet no less intense.
Moreso, for all the scars which we wear and show the world
pale by comparison to those hiding beneath the surface.
Escaping only as sobs or shrieks of pain in solitude.
The mask we wear for the world is not us.
- Only a part of us.
Something we cover our true selves with
as clothing covers and protects our bodies,
or sunglasses our eyes;
even in the absence of the sun.
We hope that people will be attracted to our mask.
We live days pretending that even we cannot see past.
The truth lies within.
- The truest beauty,
- deepest hurt,
- greatest aspirations,
- and fears
- — within.
Loving the mask is loving an idea.
The person: the living, feeling being
lies beneath, behind, inside.
A naked soul:
- without form.
- without sex;
- without gender,
- skin color,
- or even skin.
- Without height,
- eye color,
- or even eyes.
- Without hair, or hair style.
- Without even voice.
- These temporary masks —
- will fade and deteriorate.
To love truly is to see past the shell:
the individual beneath.
“I wrote this poem, while sitting in the dark, the morning of my grandmother’s funeral. Hearing my mother speak unexpectedly at the funeral gave me the courage to read it aloud that night. My grandmother suffered, as my mother does, from Schizophrenia, and I wish that I had been able to understand her better when I was younger, and to see past the labels people assigned to her as they dismissed her and looked past her.”
I have tried to keep the formatting of the words as close to the original as possible. The original can be viewed here.