You are not given a face.
You keep some shards, discard others,
set the chosen pieces until light passes cleanly.
What holds together without glue
is you.
Now the question of who you are. Not the inherited self, not the performed self, but the one that survives stripping. Who is calling, and which voices do you bind yourself to?
Who are you when no one is watching, rewarding, or responding to you?