Countenance

What happens when there is no mask to hide ourselves under? Nothing to compose ourselves, no one to hold us together. When glue melts and paint peals, what is shown on our beloved face.

look upon my eyes and see my despair.

Look upon the curves of my mouth,

every dimple, every indentation and flaw

and see the broken, chapped soul.

Look upon the pink stained skin,

the dried, unsustainable tears.

Look upon the countenance of a heart broken

and the obscenity known as mankind.

Take a picture, treasure it.

May it haunt your dreams as you do

and maybe one day, you’ll realize too

that the soul of a man is not harsh,

a frozen desert void of emotional context,

but that my soul resided with you

and even that has been taken.

My countenance was you…

How to compose myself now?