Mask

I don't know what she looks like. I consider her a friend, but I've never seen her face, and I fear I may never have the pleasure. She drifts through life like a feather carried on a breeze, tumbling in whichever direction the wind is blowing, but gently enough to never splatter against a wall.

It hurts, seeing her live like this, but I know I can't force another way of life upon her. It has to be her own decision. Still, it hurts just the same, every time I see her apologize, hear the self-effacing tone with which she enumerates her failures, feel her flinch at the lightest touch. I want so much better for her, and if I could I would give it to her, force it down her throat despite her protestations, make her show me her face. It doesn't work like that. If I want to see it, she'll have to let me.

I'm sure she's beautiful. She insists she isn't, that those who have seen her and said as much are too kind, that there's really nothing of interest hiding behind the blinding light of the halo. But I've seen the way she walks when she thinks no one's looking. I've seen the grace of her wings spreading as she takes flight, a beauty she cannot hide. I've seen barest glimpses when the light subtly flickers. Enough to make me ravenous for more. I know she's a liar. Not just to me, but to herself. I only hope that one day she'll stop believing her bullshit, and show me her face.