Masks

09 July 2020, Category: poetry


This article is Part 3 in a 3-Part Series.

CW: Body harm

Drowned in newspaper and glue,
I have forgotten my real face.

I have been here before, I know.
Not just this town square, but this
same moment, repeated endlessly.
Versions of myself concatenate.
Routes taken become smudges
around the square. Termina
is quiet today. Everyone bracing.

I’m too late, the sky too close.
I almost fall into the orbit
of that hideous moon. I can see
each tooth, each blood vessel
popping from yellow eyes. My time
is squandered again. I stand firm
at the end of the third day, centred
at the exact point of lunar impact.

I rip away my false faces, starting
at the eye holes, tearing away my skin
to the bone behind so I can better
watch the inevitable collision.



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