The prison of woven flesh

A girl sits in her dresser, a needle in her hand.
The thread in its bore sewing,
a new skin into the face she tries to mend.

Blood drips,
carrying every bit she endured,
Though the pain is nothing compared to what she faced before.

"It's horrific!"
Is it? Well, don't we all do the same?
She stitches her own mask while in agonizing reminiscence of pain.

Though it's sewn to her face,
soon it will dissolve, carved into her skin,
the bits now visible will then fade away.

Soon she will master the art of hiding in the costume she creates,
and never again will any naked eyes see her true self.

A new disguise,
a veil, and this one no one can ever tell.

The girl sits in her dresser, tears stream down her cheeks.
Now the world has finally taught her the flow of this play.

She steps outside, the cold breeze kisses her stitched face,
everywhere her eyes linger only masks met her gaze.

The girl stands on the road, a constant daze in her eyes,
now wearing the very mask that everyone wears though despise.