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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