Caged Waste

O' this wasted mask we wear
to not have to show what we are
to keep the secrets quiet
to lend mystery
to drown away our
guilt.

O' this we do to ourselves to hide
in the dark spots
from any who would judge us.

And our guilty pleasures
that no one can possibly know
to save ourselves
from the prying eyes
from the distant looks
from the building want
of those who wish they could be
the same way too.

Of what we are inwardly
and the pains we go through to
keep it quiet.

Of our sins.
Of our apprehensions.
Our secret guilt.

She stood this way too,
building a firm foundation
around her heart so they
couldn't see the far away hurt
that lingered there.

They couldn't know that she
had a secret desire to
open the cage of her chest
to expose the tender muscle
there
and let loose
a passion stronger than
anyone had yet seen.

She constructed the gates,
bound them with iron,
and cast them into the fire
to harden them there
so they would never warp
so they would never settle for
less
ever again.

O' this wasted mask she chose to wear.

And as her hair melted gray
and the skin fell loose,
the gates stood strong in her
solitude
behind a mask made
of all the wrong done unto her.

As she fell sick and turned
her gaze toward sweet release,
the hinges finally gave
from the rust of years,
through salty tears
and gripping guilt.

When she finally passed,
the words caught on her tongue
and no one was the wiser
to who she was under the mask.

But the gates had fell
all too late
for the cage that bound her
was a sepulcher and
would not release the secrets she held.

Maybe in another time
and another place
she could set that love free,
but not now.