The Second Face

I have worn so many faces

that sometimes I forget

which one is mine.

There is the smile polished for company,

bright enough to blind the question

before it can be asked.

There is the silence stitched neatly

into the seams of a dinner conversation.

There is the laughter that rings like crystal

but cracks if you listen closely.

Beneath them all,

the quieter self waits.

The one who speaks in unfinished sentences,

who hides small storms behind the teeth,

who carries shadows folded

like secret letters in a pocket.

Not every disguise is a lie.

Sometimes it is armor.

Sometimes it is survival.

Sometimes the mask is lighter

than the weight of being seen whole.

But still —

in the mirror behind the mirror,

I watch the hidden face flicker.

It shifts like water,

a self half-remembered,

a truth rehearsing its own emergence.

What if I let it surface?

Would the world recoil?

Or would it recognize me

more clearly than I ever have?

I imagine peeling the mask away

like paper scorched at the edges,

revealing not a stranger,

but the original pulse of light —

unpolished,

unapologetic,

and waiting all this time

to breathe.