The Mask, a poem

You can't see it from the outside.

That's the point of the mask.

Down at the core, I am hurting.

Lost. Alone.

Angry one minute, sad the next.

I can't remember what joy feels like.

I'm not sure I'd recognize it if it walked back in.

But out here, in the world,

you say I'm handling it well.

I smile when I need to.

I laugh, sometimes, at the right moments.

I show up. I do the things.

I can hold a conversation about almost anything, like before.

It's bullshit.

I'm falling to pieces behind my own face.

I am a hollowed out version of who I was.

Same shape. Same name.

Eyes permanently swollen, mornings I don't talk about.

I need you to hear this clearly.

I. Am. Not. Well.

And I can't be fixed. Not with a fix.

This takes time. It takes effort.

Rebuilding, not repairing.

I'm trying to find a way to make room.

For joy. Happiness. Desire. Drive.

The things that used to just... show up.

Now I have to go looking.

I am a fixer. A doer.

I've never met a problem I couldn't work.

Couldn't out-think, out-plan, out-work into something better.

Not this one.

I don't have the ability to make this happen.

I only have the ability to be open to it happening.

I am not good at that.

I keep reaching for the tools I know.

There are no tools for this.

Just the mask, and the waiting, and whatever is underneath,

trying to remember how to breathe on its own.