Masquerade

There is a masquerade.

Glistening beads under the eyes and ornate crafting.

Like a window, filtering in the light and leaving the drizzle.

Like a clandestine lie, hiding away the truth and leaving the hurt.

Like a smile here, a scowl there, all added with a chef’s expertise.

And the dance goes on.

Step on toes with squinted eyes and bated breath as if the mask will slip.

Like peeling a bandage painted in red.

Like succumbing to a dreamless sleep.

Like finally letting go.

Some do.

The masquerade is over for them as the glass slipper fits.

Others keep going on.

Their shadows get longer as the masquerade lengthens.

Like a dripping tap on an overflowing cup.

Like the receding tide before a tsunami.

Like the mask becomes the person.

Help.