The mask gently draped over my face is slipping off of my sweat soaked skin. The sheen coating my pale exterior sticks to the warm plastic of the face I pretend to wear to appease those surrounding me like a swarm of irate wasps. None of the persons around me seem no notice that the faux face attached to my head is ever so slowly falling to show the cracked tile of my skull beneath.

The plastic face slick with body fluid scratches against my ivory skin, chipping at the scars the hot-glue never seemed to fully heal. Maybe if my depression shows itself faster, the chips of tile will break off, infect with virus, and lead to my eventual end. Perhaps not. Either way, I hope the reveal of my true face will end in the death of my body.

My trembling wire hands ache to push the plastic back up my head to cover the illness I've spent so many years trying to hide. My anxiety hides well in my thin, metal fingers, the stress blending into the ADD that everyone ignores will all their might. If only my melancholy was as easy to hide away in body parts others pay no mind to. Maybe then I would not need plastic to mask my true feelings for the ones who care not for me, but for what I spread out into the world.

My heavy lungs breathe in and out, the cloth leadened down by anxiety attacks. Slight rips hold the oxygen in and pushes the happiness out into the world. The Earth needs more sunshine to make the rainy days less miserable, and my instruments made for breathing stitched together with stone string is perfect for making the little bit of joy in my body leave to make my Nature Mother feel better than I do.

The more my mask slips, the more my hands tremble, the more my gasping lungs clutch onto emptiness, the more my material body seems to realize that I am not a part of this world. My soul is not the tile of my skin, nor the metal of my hands, nor the heavy cloth of my lungs. My soul is a part of my flesh heart, ever thumping rapidly in the cage my ribs make around it.

My material death will not be the end of my soul, as much as it will be the end of my existence on this plane of Earth. My material death will cause for my life on this floating rock in space to cease, but not end the continuation of the person in my heart of hearts. I hope for my tile skin and my wire hands and my cloth lungs to end, but not the person in my flesh heart, for in my next life I want to be made not of tile and wire and cloth, but of the flower petals of spring and the breeze of the summer.