“The Smile”

It starts with the curve—
a crescent umoon
painted across a tired face.
The kind of light that doesn’t come from stars,
but from habit.

People say,
“what a beautiful smile.”
They don’t see the scaffolding beneath it— 
how heavy steel can bend
when the soul’s foundation is cracked.

It’s a mask,
but not for deceit.
It’s survival.
A small, trembling flag
in the middle of a storm.

The teeth shine
but the tongue hides—
words swallowed,
tears disguised as laughter.

Sometimes the corners ache,
like old wounds stitched too tight.
But I keep wearing it.
Because if I take it off,
someone might see the hollow.

And hollows are hard to explain
when the world prefers
a smile.