Insides

My skin speaks

to yours as you first brush

against it, initial       strokes

that turn to motions

of a knife, testing.

I notice how firmly

you grip it, not cautiously

                    but ready to sever, to end

the dangerous experiment.

Feel how my veins

seem to work faster

now, before you

take apart, peel away

the ribs hiding a heart.

Do you know that only you

can see it moving,

watch it   quicken,

blood       pumping,

                rushing through me?

I know the fear

heard only in your exhalations.

I see how it keeps to your shadows, but

out of sight is not

out of touch.

This is too much,

             too painful,

but you are compelled.

I know because

I am human, too.

Look past my eyes

          —no, deeper—

where a lifetime lives in a maze,

and sparks erupt as you

run along narrow paths, kindling

fires with soft footsteps,

lights               glowing as you

touch them like a moth, curious,

and              like a moth

you came in darkness.

Bag of Masks

I carry around a bag of masks,

careful not to let those

around me hear the sound

they make as I move,

as I saunter or as I sneak.

The rattle is unsettling

and calls for the mask

of reassuring deceit.

I would tell you I have something

of a talent, unless

I was wearing a modest mask.

It becomes a game

of evasion, manoeuvre,

that makes a particular mask

smile with glee,

a snake's smile.

I can be whoever

I need to be,

anyone

you want me to be.

I can be stony stoicism

when inside is a state of emergency,

screaming warzone, glaring abyss.

My denial shames governments.

There is a face beneath

all these facades, although

I'm not sure you'd

like to see it.

It's been a long time since

I saw myself in a mirror, and

an act is only such

for so long.