Masquerade

A dress of white to hide her impurity. A smile to mask her pain and guilt. A vault of titanium to conceal her heart. Sleeves pulled over her wrists, a long train to cover her ankles and hide the bruises and cuts caused by the chains snapped tightly around them. This is how she will present herself to the world. An image of freedom and virtue and all things pure.

But what is truly hidden beneath the girlish, carefree smile she wears? What lies beneath the yards of blindingly white fabric? What would the key to the heavy door bolted around her heart reveal?

The lies will surface and stain the flawless fabric. The mask will be snatched off to expose the exhaustion from keeping up with the lies. The scars will taunt her as her gaze falls to her war-torn body. She is no model of purity. She is no model of goodness. She is fallen. She is dirty. She is guilty.

But to protect herself, to protect her pride, she will wear this disguise and pretend all is well.

The day will come when she gains the courage to rip the white gown to reveal the blood and dirt it veils. She longs for the strength to remove the mask so all will see the pain and guilt written plainly upon her face. She yearns to hold her wounds toward the heavens and receive a sweet kiss planted upon them. She all but begs for the fortitude to take the key in her hand and open the prison cell her heart has been encased in. So all will see her scars. So she can risk the ache and let someone in.

One day.

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