After a long day,

I open up my bedroom door,

close it,

and lock it.

I tamper with my face a bit,

loosen a few strands,

peel off some layers of cloth,

and take it off.

I open my closet door,

and hang it on an open hook,

with the other ones.

It’s a mask.

They’re all masks.

Masks of my “emotions.”

The ones I can’t express.

When I wake up the next day,

I grab it—

number twenty-six,

the smiling mask.

And head out on my way.