The fabric of my skin

weaves a curtain littered with scars,

wrapped around wary bones

that echo with broken syllables.

The porcelain of my countenance,

painted with a red smile and brown eyes,

covers fathomless black pools

that could drown sailors at sea.

The curve of my spine

faces a room full of people,

yet none of them can read

the sorrow

etched into each vertebra.

This is what it means

to be an actress.

This is what it means

to wear a mask.

This is what it means

to peak from behind the curtain

only to see a room of strangers.

This is what it means

to paint a smile

over cracked lips

and fill in the cracks

of opaque pupils

with acrylic and a brush.

This is what it means

to be the smoke

that clouds the mirror.