My being, hidden from you,
is also hidden from me.
You see a
thin exterior,
and I see
you looking at
the me
that we both
know is not really me
and not you,
but a stranger to both of us.
I smile, or laugh,
or frown,
or so you say,
but is that me or
the multitude of my faces
seducing me into thinking that is me?
I don’t need another mask
to hide this mask
that is so very hard to remove.
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