I grew a new face at seventeen.

I grew a new face at seventeen.  

If you look closely, you can still see the seams.

At the time, it formed out of a need for survival. 

Like I would've drowned if I didn't plaster on a smile. 

Now it's been ten long years with this new face of mine. 

And I've had it. I'm done. This face needs to go. It's more than time. 

But I think I need a surgeon to remove it: unpick all the hidden sutures. 

Because right now I can't picture this face in my future. 

I mean, I've tried everything I could to drain it of life - 

Cried on it, bled through it, starved it of light. 

But it seems this face is mine for another while at least. 

I think the world's decided this fight is something I have to daily repeat. 

Because with everyone new, I have to weigh up a choice. 

Whether to expose the mask or accept the wonky, distorted voice. 

You see, it's never just me on the surface anymore.

It takes a bit of digging to expose what's really in store. 

And I don't always have the energy. The trust. Or the time. 

So, it's often my new face that picks up when I decline.

But I worry I'll be buried in this fixed mask of skin.

Like an Egyptian mummy buried in countless layers of linen.

Because this face isn't me, and I'm trapped underneath. 

So, please give me a minute. I'm still learning how to breathe.