An unmade bed is made
for the unkept secrets we shared.
For under the wrinkled covers
Lies what we left behind.
Blood stains our sheets
and our hands.
Even bleach can't wash
the crimson from the thread.
We left with no sign
of who we are.
We left behind tokens
rejected from who we've become.
Our masks lie
beneath the wrinkled covers
withering and decaying.
Our masks
with starry eyes
and wide smiles.
Our masks
with love drunk
expressions and
blushing skin.
Our masks
we took from our face,
when we stood
in front of one another
and shed our summer skin,
spotted brown.
I shed my skin for you,
and you kissed the red flesh
ever so tenderly,
and then my trembling hand raised,
and my mask fell.
I shed myself for you,
I showed you my true face,
only to come to learn,
the mask is what you loved.