Awaking in Third Person Singular

We all possess an odd face,
Mine is a pale one under a dim light
With freckles and tight nostrils
And eyes, half-closed, never wide-opened,
And a mouth with a tip of a tongue at its corner,
My odd face is always set on a thought,
And many-so-often, it’s a long one,
And it stops hiding, so you ask
“What’s the matter?”,
And I have to grow distant,
So you won’t see it.
But you never stop asking,
You push your face into mine,
You look deep inside,
All deafened by my sigh
And there is nothing I can do about it
So I confess and leave in grief.