love your face

She shows them she loves them by peeling off their faces and affixing them to hers. She cries like them, she spits like them, she blinks like them. She speaks in a funny accent; forgets words she’s always known. She votes haphazardly and curses at her mother.

Every night, she takes the face off and lays it by her sink for morning. But one night she falls asleep in it — and realizes how much easier that feels. So she stops taking it off. The face begins to sprout little tendons that fishhook into her skin. She practices smiling in the mirror for hours. Watches herself smoke cigarette after cigarette; curses at her reflection.

One morning, she begins to sweat and tries to peel the face off. She scratches and scratches. It peels in little tendrils but mostly stays intact. She begins to cry like herself and is startled by how confusing and ugly it looks. She swipes her eyes with her shirt and begins to recite the alphabet. When she hears the unfamiliar lilt on “u” she calms a bit. When she’s finished, she spits into the sink and smiles.