Masks
The click of her heels makes a rhythmic beat down the hallway
And I swear she’s writing a song.
And the swish of her skirt, the saunter in her walk, holds a secret that is too big for my ears.
But I will strive to know what lies behind her painted disguise,
Behind those mysterious eyes and her crimson smile;
I can’t see the pain she hides so completely.
The midnight shadows that trail her eyelashes veil the purple and blue smudges,
HE left on her cheekbones.
Those bruises are a makeup of their own.
Tethered by the promise of inevitable love
Loving shackles turn to iron encapsulating her in an infinite loop of devastation
A smile set in ruby red granite
Leads me to believe that her world is (almost, perfect)
But I peek behind the masquerade and peer into the truth.
This is her own personal defense mechanism,
Trails of tears suffocated by black eyeliner and lilac dust,
Bleeding lips smothered by bubblegum pink lipstick;
She is pained.
But so many years of not showing her pain
The day-to-day strain she goes through
All the personal demons and monsters she’s slain
Leave her broken. In pieces.
Barely able to reassemble
Barely able to stitch together her ragged reversed reality; 
But she does. She has to, it’s all she has.
So wake ups and carefully choose her weapon, slathers it in her war paint.
Slowly brushes away the mistakes of her life from her mocha skin;
She paints on details of happiness
She smiles at the mirror and persuades the girl that stares back that
Nothing has ever gone wrong in the post-apocalyptic calamity of her life.
So her heels will hit the tiles in a periodic tick and her steps will leave a quiet pulse behind her.
The trails of her skirt whisper silent secrets she suppresses under blue clouds and magenta storms
That swarm her heightened bronzed cheekbones.
And even though I've peered behind the mask preserved in plaster perplexity
I shall leave her there peacefully,
Try not to decode the enigma I see in her eyes,
And all the tribulations and crucifixions and all the times that she's cried.
Her back is like an iron girded flagpole and she is a warrior
Who marches quickly and wards off oncoming peril with a cacophony of confidence.
She is a boxer who fights back cracked knuckles cracking cold blows against her cracked bones,
But most of all, she is a woman.
And someday she'll leave her facade by the wayside to look her demons in the eyes
But today she fights her battles against her beasts and dares him to try and take her mask.