Mask

Maia Kirchkheli

I wear a mask.
All day.
Every day.

There are different sides.
One is who you want me to be but also who I want to be.
The other is who you don't know and are afraid of - as am I.

They reveal themselves; at times, simultaneously.
How would you recognize me?
How do I recognize myself?

The carefree side I love the most; she understands who I wish to be.
The discomfiture feeds the depths of what isn't whole.
I both love it and loathe it.

The mask serves its purpose yet fails at times.
I scream behind it hoping you, someone, anyone will hear.
At times I am silent and accept. And observe.

I see more than you know. The roots of the mask are deep.
I notice what you don't; yet I feign ignorance.
Because mirrors aren't always welcome if someone is holding it.

Nor are they always welcome upon your own inspection.
Not because you scrutinize the physical, but rather you dive into the depths.
The cold dark drowning depths that haunt you.

The mask holds both light and dark.
You see predominately what I want you to see.
But there are days or moments when I am unsure of who I am.

Those days, the mask governs it's showing. I do not.
I can only let what it reveals lead the moment.
I don't know who you see.

Most of my days are this.
If I can't be my own true self, how do you know me?
How do you know who Rachelle really is?

An affliction that troubles me at any given moment.
At every given moment.

“No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true.” 
― Nathaniel Hawthorne