Her mask

Deep,exotic brown,
the mask lies motionless,
on her dresser.
Each morning,
she puts it on.
Her slender fingers,
caress it’s contours.
Slowly adjusting
the mahogany mask
into place.
It covers her face
and has small eye slits
to let the light in.
It’s strings carve into her,
from behind.
It’s weight burdens her,
Sometimes.
The mask’s mouth,
always smiles.
No one knows,
whether she does.

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