It happens slowly—
then all at once.
You learn to hold your face
like a borrowed mask,
painted in the colors
others find easier to look at.
At first it feels like play—
a costume party of belonging,
each gesture rehearsed,
each laugh measured
to the rhythm of someone else’s comfort.
But the paint begins to dry.
You forget which smile was yours.
Even your silence changes shape
to fit the space they leave for it.
You start trimming your edges—
shaving off the parts that snag
on their expectations.
Your voice becomes
a translation of a translation,
each word losing something
in its journey to the air.
Then one day
you look for yourself
and find only echoes:
a thousand reflections
blinking back the wrong expression.
The mask clings,
even when you sleep.
It whispers how beautiful
you’ve become in your absence.
And you realize—
the act of hiding
was never gentle.
It was an erasure,
swift and polite,
the kind that leaves
no trace of blood
but takes the body just the same.
