The Curator of Masks...

The Curator of Masks
I was the curator of a very unique museum
A museum of masks and armors,
displayed in glass cases for all to see,
each crafted with meticulous care.
The People Pleaser, gilded in eternal smiles.
The Achiever, brandished with gold stars.
The Good Girl, pristine porcelain.
The Armor of Strength, burnished with survival.
Visitors praised my collection,
never knowing how each mask
carved deeper grooves into my face,
or how heavy my body grew
under the perfectly protective armor.
Until I noticed a crack
in the People Pleaser’s smile
A fracture of truth.
The Achiever’s star began to tarnish,
The Good Girl’s porcelain chipped.
I stood amid the familiar weight,
watching years of careful curation
CRUMBLE
And in the empty space
where masks once hung,
I saw my reflection in the glass
Raw, unadorned, and magnificent.
Now I run a different museum,
one with a single exhibit:
A woman who wears her truth,
who knows the difference
between display and dignity,
who refuses to hide behind
anyone else’s idea
of who she should be.
The admission is free
but not everyone is ready
for this kind of art.