Broken when I was young,
when you said you loved me
(and didn’t mean it).
Mended with seams made for ripping.
I begged trust like it was a scrap of food,
and I was the starving orphan at the church window.
She called me a liar, but when you’re not safe enough
(to trust),
what other choice do you have?
Life was a game of keep-away I never understood.
Whenever I was vulnerable enough to take off my mask,
the acidity of life chewed away the soft bits and left behind bone.
(Pliable bone, the kind that could break & without proper care
would mend crooked.)
Trust.
I gave you all I had, but you still came back starving
with an empty bowl and pleading eyes.
Isabelle Palerma 
So beautiful Isabelle, thank you for sharing. I was pleasantly surprised to find this in my inbox today as I am working on a piece about masks. I’m grateful for the inspiration.
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Oh, fantastic! I’m so glad to read that. I’ve been journaling about identity lately, and I finally feel my mask shedding.
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If you’d like to chat ever, feel free to send me an email or a message!
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