"We all wear masks, and the time comes when we cannot remove them without removing some of our own skin." ~André Berthiaume
The names I have carried.
They shape us, the shapes we take on, the roles we fill and the songs we sing.
How could they not?
We are not granite you know. We don't move through life unflinching, unchanging until one day we are cracked open, thunderbolt to the chest and look at all the beauty inside. At least I hope not. We are in our soft green growing humanity, human. And adaptable. We move malleable like clay, like breath.
The masks I have worn and the masques I have danced in.
They used to say witches danced up a storm, some nights we still can. It is impossible to share all the names here, some have not come home yet, but I will give you what I can.
Anna-May, a soft southern flower growing up.
Marie, the child innocence they all don't see but fight to protect.
Kid, everything I wanted but could never have. A box he built for me to protect her from his own desires. I was never that image. I live in between the lines.
Rogue, a culmination of acquired, begged, borrowed and stolen pain. Forged and shaped into a woman, a face, a fighter.
Darlin, my heart-hope, a beginning to all I ever wanted.
Sister time over, blood and soul, across the world.
Daughter, difficult, loved and hope to be better.
Lover. Team-mate, comrade.
Fighter, truly and trained well.
Healer. Reaper.
I have been a friend, imagined, a number, a mug shot, a head shot, a ballerina, a so-called conspirator, an artist, a writer, a cleaner, a fortune teller, a secretary, a mentor, a heart-song, a flown bird.
I have been it all and more. The shifting can be painful. Healing transitions and all that.
But really, it wouldn't be right for us to change the dance and our faces without earning some scars.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Rogue, vignette. Reflections on living many lives.
Chapter End Notes:
Thank you for reading. Constructive feedback is welcomed!