The Masquerade is a sick rite of passage that is taught.

As we grow older more people arrive

donning new physiques to hide their true selves

to become more appealing.

I don’t recall arriving—

and I’m certain nobody taught me these dances—

but for as long as I can remember I’ve worn my mask.

Mine is a mask of Strength,

Composure, and

Normalcy

like so many others at this ball.

These disguises cover many of the same imperfections,

but mine protects

my Depression,

my Anxiety, and

my Insecurity.

As time has passed, I’ve added to it;

I fake what I pretend to know as social norms,

contributing to the façade.

I wear it as a shield,

for I fear my blemishes will be rejected by those I wish to accpet me;

that I will, in fact,

be peculiar

ostracized from the crowd.

I take my mask off for so few and,

on occasion,

they take off theirs for me;

exposing our faults

realizing our similarities.

If everyone at this masquerade is covering up the same impurities,

What’s the point of wearing these masks at all?