“Take off the mask,” he said to me, 
“Take it off and show me who you claim to be.” 
I hesitated for it was wrong, 
Pretending like I wanted to play along, 
Giving in to his every whim for the simple reason of what if. 
I didn’t want to hand it over.  
I couldn’t simply discard, 
The last piece of who I used to be,
Etched in white lace, 
And scribbled with butterfly wings. 
I was still me, 
After all the names said,
And actions regretted. 
I was still in there fighting to be let free, 
From the chains of reality, 
And the sights of the seen.
Perhaps I was just hiding from a world unlike childhood dreams,
Waiting for the day until I could run and play,
In the yard where I was meant to be, 
Singing tunes that didn’t rhyme, 
And making up my own storylines, 
Drawing hearts in red chalk, 
And walking down an aisle of blankets and rugs,
Vulnerable and happy, I was. 
“Take off the mask,” he said to me. 
No. You cannot have me.