White-tipped mountains, aching to explode,
popped with streams of thick white then thin red
— red that morphs into splotched chasms, near and far —
My face is like Mars.

Caked with cream-colored dust, then overlapped with blush
beneath the layers it is obvious, dark black dot crusted over again
— again because it has been tugged and torn before and before mercilessly —
Don’t pretend to be blind.

You, yes you, who I can see
so quiet, you’re silent, but I hear everything
— everything you’re thinking based off the way you squint your judgmental eyes —
Your Curiosity roves chillingly.

When the sun levels out with the horizon
pale crusted black turns to pale crusted red as water is splashed
— splashed so a mask can fade and be replaced with one of white cream —
My face is like the Moon.

A Moon that is exclusive to my mirror
A Moon that is exclusive to me.

Until the morning.