Real women sacrifice

We drank a lot of tequila the night we met, I remember that. 

And I remember his black mask, the way it wrapped around his lips to his nose and ears. Wrongfully, it covered something so beautiful and I saw his skin underneath begin to lose its’ sparkle. Like, champagne popped and left open, or rain that pours over wildfire. I tried to show him his skin, and how it reminded me of oak wood. Sand. Coffee made with cream. Soil, loam, dirt mixed in puddles of rain and mud. Maybe even sticky, dark honey. I prayed to God, “help him take it off, help him remove his mask, help him love the face You gave him.” But, despite my prayers, I watched him rust like old metal. 

Still, I am trying.

I really am trying.

I am trying to see what lies underneath. Oh God, I love and cannot leave him. I am only a child, but I do not fear Your faithless men, anymore. I have learned to love through all the layers of my own bleeding heart, with mercy, guide me to force that hard lesson. I promise, I will hold his face, his skin, who he is and who he longs to be. I will set my own judgement down, because whatever he believes he has, he does not. It is not contagious. 

Please, take off your mask. 

Your skin 





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