This Familiar Stranger

I know this face. By heart, I know every line, every freckle, every imperfection.

With eyes closed, I can trace the silhouette, the profile, every edge and angle.

These lips form a smile I know. Fake or genuine, I can decipher the difference, while the world is the fool.

My hands find their way to this face. Of course, I know this face. The feel of this skin is familiar under my finger tips.

But these eyes. Oh, these eyes. A million times, I’ve gazed into them… Probing, begging for answers, demanding strength, rebuking tears. But as they look back at me from this cold glass imitation, I am confused.

These emerald windows are closed. The soul they contain is just that, contained. A prisoner, locked away in a cage.

When did I become this way? A stranger to myself. A victim of my own self hate.

To kill the soul, invisible suicide. The world would be not the wiser.

And no one has to know. These eyes have nothing to tell. They are just an empty shell. A reminder of something that has been.

Desperate with panic, I grasp the cold glass in my hands. I beg myself to come bacl. Not to slip any further into the unknown.

It’s useless I know. But I want to slap that fake smile right off my face. Why must I smile, when all I want is to cry?

I feel it coming before I fully understand.

I tremble as I feel the rip, deep inside my chest. No matter how many battles I’ve won, no matter how many victories I’ve celebrated… The war is done.

I feel as my soul pulls and tears at itself until I’m left with two pieces of a whole. And I reach inside and choose the piece easiest to bear.

The one with a mask to wear.