I wear my smile like a sweatshirt.
Easy to pull on,
easy to hide in.
Grown-ups see it and nod,
like everything inside me
must be fine.
But my mirror knows better.
It catches the way my eyes
go flat when no one’s looking,
how I talk to myself in whispers
just to hear someone answer.
Secrets feel heavy in my pockets.
Heavy like rocks.
Some are tiny,
like the words I never say out loud.
Some are bigger,
like how I dream about running away
and starting over
where no one knows my name.
When I laugh with friends,
it’s real, mostly.
But there’s always a piece of me
standing off to the side,
watching...
wondering if they’d still like me
if I showed them the part
that stays quiet.
Sometimes I think the version of me
everyone believes in
is learning to live without me.
And I don’t know
if I’m supposed to stop her,
or let her go.
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