The Faces That Learned to Wear Their Owner

It stands proud and worn out at the same time, dressed not in cloth but in faces. Each one borrowed, each laid over the last, until the armour weighs more than whatever it was built to protect. Vain and brittle. Loud, and with nothing to say. It asks to be looked at, admired, feared if that's on offer. Under all of it, something plainer: I no longer recognise my own face.