Hiding From God

Masks
I have grown used to wearing painted faces,
the ones ornate and covered with fine laces
and worn in proper company, high places
where men are praised for all their social graces.
 
It is a most luxurious sensation
to wear a face of mirth and fixed elation
that covers over fear and trepidation
and wipes away all signs of desolation.
 
I have no issue my true face concealing,
nor have I any qualms of not revealing
what lies inside, the depths of inner reeling
that shake my core and cry out more for healing.
 
My grief and pain lie deep in places hidden
and, forced down into holes too small to fit in,
it bubbles up and gushes out unbidden,
and I am racked with woe, laid low, guilt-ridden!
 
My secret traumas will not find their closure
unless consent I give to their exposure—
but I can’t help but cover all their traces.
I have grown used to wearing painted faces. 

Nota bene: This poem emerged from a period of self-reflection in which I realized many of the ways that I hide from others and from God.  What masks do you put on to hide your true face from God and from others?