The unmasking: you
insist you know me.

My mask lowered, you see my fresh face:
make-up artfully painted on.
You see who I wish you to see.
You assume you see who I am and you smile.

But do you? Truly see?
What do you see beneath the mask
and do you know
if
I am still wearing one?

I am, of course.
It would do neither of us
any favors for you to see
the real me
beyond
the mask.

Underneath is
where earwigs scuttle through
decaying remains of my psyche,
pincers grasping at inevitability,
where maggots squirm,
feasting on dessicated
memories of what never was,
where slimy ones asp
fanged-tooth grins
dripping poison as they slither
convulsively and
where leeches suck
coagulated black blood
from any who venture too close
leaving silvered trails, empty of value.

Are you still looking at me?
Do you like what you
think you see? Illusion
is the beginning of sanity.
Or
shall I place the mask
once again upon my face
and let you wallow
in your delusion?