My face. A blank canvas. Unwrinkled but for the crisscross of cloth, worries unseen 'til eyebrows meet. Unsmiling lips, unseeable eyes, nose raised just so.
Some days I reach for the shelf with my default masks. Maybe take just two or three for the road. I stuff them in my bag hang it on my neck, close to my heart. All I need is a few seconds, no, milliseconds to make the switch. You wouldn't even notice — or, you'd be completely startled by the change.
On lazy days, when I'd rather not ruffle my feathers, I bring paint and brushes. Then I discreetly hand them over to whoever is before me, and let them paint whatever they want to see. Who cares what the canvas really wants to say? They will see what they will. Sometimes, I trash whatever it is they painted, burn it, whatever. But if what they pictured makes sense, looks beautiful, I might save it for mulling on a rainy day.
People look at my canvas of a face and believe they see me. Perhaps they do. But not completely. Never completely. That, I can never, would never show until they've proved they are ready to see. There are still so many layers, twists and turns to make it to my center. There's the slapped on paint, plain canvas, the frame, so much to get through.
I know it may sound as if I'm glorifying complexity. But honestly, it's not always so glamorous. It hurts sometimes. Opening up to someone who wants to see.
There's the Needlers. Unwanted little parasites who feast on you secret sufferings.
The Prince Charmings who want to "save" you from your secret sufferings.
The Queens, nosy little nobody-busybodies who would love nothing more than to knock on your door, offer you an apple, compliment your little house, take your silver, your salt shakers, your laundry and parade it on market day as odds and baubles to behold.
The Others, who just want to creep inside, have you believe they're there to help, but really, they mess things up. Rearrange the furniture, repaper the walls and leave the door open for you to step inside and see the damage they've done. All the while they stand there just outside the door expecting a thank you.
And then, there's the Friend. Who cuts you open, leaves you raw and bleeding but comes back with healing wine. It burns... But you're healing. Bit by bit. The paint is scrubbed off from your canvas face. They hand you the brush and paints.
They hand YOU the brush and paints.
They realize that you're damaged and show you that you are. They will force you to face the truth. You've known it all along but you just wouldn't believe it. Slowly, bit by bit, one step at a time on broken glass you move forward. They let you paint. They let you decide. They will be there as you grow.
My face. A blank canvas. Unwrinkled but for the crisscross of cloth, ready to face what lies ahead. Default masks in my pocket, paint and brushes in hand. But this time, I'm not letting go of them so easily.