The Evil Mask

I still wear it sometimes, at night,
A decorated mask with painted on emotions—
The kind celebrated artists wear at festivals.
I bought it at a flee market on the outskirts of the city.

I still remember the old man who sold it to me.
He has wispy white hair
that tries desperately to cover up his age.
His deep set wrinkles tell a sad and lonely tale.

I stand next to ancient artifacts meant
to ward off any evil approaching.
That’s when I see the mask.
I remember the old man saying,

“That mask, which you are about to buy—
is ruled by a legendary and haunting curse.
It was worn by he who cannot be named,
the ruler who tortured and murdered his own people.

Here, hold it. Get a closer look. See here,
Around the edge, the faint outline of blood.
I would advise you to buy something else,
But if you want it it’s yours.”

Every morning after, I wake with a start.
The mask stares back at me,
the painted on smile bigger than before
I wonder what I did last night?