I didn’t make the mask I wear. My father did, fixing it in place with his leather belt and his hard hands. My first boyfriend helped, years later, telling me I had to keep it on or else.
My husband says my mask is beautiful. His own is made of sweet words on the outside, but the eyeholes are dark and bloody. I’ve seen the thunderous face beneath.
I wonder what my face is like. I’m afraid to take the mask off in case there’s nothing under there. I’m afraid to keep it on in case it’s all I am.