The Smooth Face

A poem for Mina Howell's Mask Prompt #4

I put on my face before I open the door.

It is smooth, and pleasant,

and asks for nothing.

It knows how to smile at the right time.

How to be interested,

but not too intense.

It is a good face. A useful one.

Behind it,

my own thoughts are a mess of knots,

a loud room of arguments.

A quiet well of things I wish I could say.

A different hunger.

A love that has no place at the table,

so it learns to live in the shadows.

But this face is easier for everyone.

Polite. Predictable.

It doesn’t make waves.

Sometimes, though, at the end of the day,

I catch my own reflection,

and for a second, I don't recognize

the person underneath.

The one who is tired

of holding his breath.