“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.