My mask. It’s chipped. It’s weathered. It’s worn. It’s strong. Created by my own hand and by time. It’s every curve, scratch, dent, and dimple a reflection of this journey, of survival. The first openings I carved were for oxygen- to exist, to breathe. To live here. The two after that to see all the things around me. Everything the world holds- it’s beauties, it’s terrors and to take them in, not averting my gaze. Then two more to hear. To hear the sounds, the voices, the words, the ideas of the peoples this place. The final opening is small- as it should be. After taking it all in- breathing and seeing and listening, this final opening is just big enough for a few words. Only ones that matter- in my highest hopes- the right words at the right time. I made this thing and I put it on. I’ve held it up and it’s, in turn, held me up. I no longer take it off- not even to rest. I don’t know what would happen if I brought it down. If I took it off. What’s left underneath? What’s really there? I remember when I last let it down and I remember the moment when I picked it back up. I latched it to my skull. New scratches. New scars. I needed it back. I remember. I remember I first made it to assimilate. To laugh. To be brave. To protect the fragile, virgin flesh beneath it from cruelty. I made it to fit in and in so doing it made me stand out. I believed so heartily, down to my very bones, it could protect me. That with it I could be anything. In my mask I know what to do; my mask knows what to do. It is unafraid. It is unstoppable. And if I let it down- What would you see? What would be left? Would you understand? Would I?