You get home after a long day, an awesome day, just a day.
You look at me through the glass on our dressing table and you contemplate momentarily.
The face that was chosen to be put on that morning, did it fit the day?
If, upon reflection, you decide that your chosen face for the day fit, you smirk because you fooled all them mother fuckers.
If, however, upon reflection, you decide that your chosen face for the day did not fit, you frown because you’ve opened up space for speculation.
Either way you will pull off that face once the pensivity and the moment pass.
Sometimes, you will be gentle and prop the day’s face neatly on the dressing table, ready for tomorrow. That’s when you’re happy. But those days are rare. Most days you rip the face off and throw it to the pile. The eight of your faces crushed and battered in the corner.
When you shout at us we hate it, but we do not complain because we know you hate it more.
We have lived with you this way for four years now.
We miss the days when it used to be fun. When you would wear us and love us and we’d all equally be apart of who you are. But now we lie, hopeless in the corner of your soul. This darkened room. There’s never any light any more. And the glass we see you through is crumbling.
We’ve been open with you about who we are and how we are feeling. Consensually. We hope it introduces a glimer of inspiration for you to be open with the world about who you are; who you really are.