The Broken Mask

On my first birthday

they gave me a mask.

They told me to keep it safe

they put it away.

 

At five I found it again,

on the top shelf, ‘it fell’

I mean I dropped it,

I can’t tell.

 

The pieces could never

fit together again,

and I’ve dropped it

again, and again, and again.

 

I decided to bind to

my face, as a mould

so it would fit again; even a little.

 

Now the pieces are added,

by the people I meet,

this is no longer the

same mask I got

all that long ago.

 

There are only

a few pieces left,

that I can call

my own.

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