When I wear my mother mask

Tom Tiernan ©2006

The masks we wear are like looking through a dirty, jagged, broken window. We know there’s something else back there but we can’t see what it is

When I wear my mother mask

I am the other, the one I don’t want to be
But can’t escape, like moon pulling tide to sea
I am the mother monster me
Wanting to apologize and flee

I am the rageful child feeling low
Allowing fear to strike a blow

I am the razor sharp claws
Looking for your hidden flaws

I am never feeling complete
Unless grinding you under my feet

I am lonely but distrust the touch
Wanting to love all so much

I am the once lovely little girl
Crushed, tiny, caught in a swirl

I remain ever lost but never found
Until being laid in the cold ground

When I lie within these sins and bask
It is often troubling to ask
For help with the difficult task
Of taking off mother monster mask

Tom Tiernan

For Michele Martin
Michele, you posted something about masks one day and inspired a thought, gave me an inkling, helped me to give birth, to bury the dead, to look again, to step out of the shadow. Thanks

Sometimes masks deserve to be hidden, pushed down, repressed, so they don’t maim the ones we love. Bringing them to light, disassembling the machine run amok, disarming the bomb, would be ideal. I don’t want to embrace this mask but perhaps I need to because it surfaces with surprising regularity. Embrace the dark? And then what?

 Question for you, the reader

Are there masks you wear on occasion that you wish you didn’t?


Photo by Tom Tiernan


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