faces

I wear many faces,
some way too old
to fit the girl glued
to the back of them.
I
keep my faces in a box,
stashed inside of me.
It’s murky in there,
overcast with feelings I
don’t
allow anyone to see.
Not that anyone cares
enough to go looking.
No one wants to
know
what bothers me. Too
hung up on their own
problems. Sometimes
I think I have to see
the real
me, so I open
the box, search inside.
But no matter how hard
I look, I can’t find
me.