Everyone Hides Behind a Mask

that sooner or later sloughs off like snakeskin. i watched

a little girl in the park peeling an orange once. carelessly

and savagely. as though if she wasn’t fast enough, all

she’d be left with would be seeds too tough and bitter to

chew. i watched drop after drop run down her elbows. her

elbows all marked with scars for probably meeting the

concrete countless times. i wonder if she cried each time.

i wish we could peel off our masks the same way she did

that orange: hungry for what is inside, rather than being

too frightened to reveal the outside. but darling, you and i,

we’ve got gas masks instead. no wonder no one knows

who we are. no wonder it leaves us winded just to kiss.