poetry | masquerade.

In masks

I find my respite.

Hide who I am inside

if only to keep people from

somehow finding out who I really

am and hating me for it. Hating me

for being me. Why do I do this?

I shouldn’t. I should be real.

But I’m scared. Too

scared about what

people will think.


If I could

somehow try

to learn how to be

real. To let them in. To

Express myself without these

masks. I could find, in myself,

a bigger person. A girl who

knows her dreams and

isn’t afraid of them.

Who doesn’t let

life pass her



I will be that person.

I’ll let go of the masks.

Come what may.


Jesus of the Scars

Edward Shillito was a British minister who witnessed the devastation of WWI. In his attempts to reconcile what he had seen with his faith, he penned these words.
“If we have never sought, we seek Thee now;
Thine eyes burn through the dark, out only stars;
We must have sight of thorn-pricks on Thy brow;
We must have Thee, O Jesus of the Scars.
The heavens frighten us; they are too calm;
In all the universe we have no place;
Our wounds are hurting us; where is the balm?
Lord Jesus, by Thy Scars, we claim Thy grace.
If, when the doors are shut, Thou drawest near;
Only reveal those hands, that side of Thine;
We know to-day what wounds are, have no fear;
Show us Thy Scars, we know the countersign.
The other gods were strong; but Thou wast weak;
They rode, but Thou didst stumble to a throne;
But to our wounds only God’s wounds can speak;
And not a god has wounds, but Thou alone.”
-Edward Shillito, Jesus of the Scars