I smile

I smile in the daylight,

practice the laughter well,

a painted mask to ease the watchers,

to keep them from asking

what shadows move inside.

They see a parent steady,

hand firm on a small shoulder,

eyes bright as if nothing trembles—

but beneath my ribs

a storm rattles chains against bone.

There is a name I never speak aloud,

a prayer whispered into locked drawers,

the terrible thought

that a single turn of fate,

a screech of tires,

a slip in the current,

could snatch the world from my arms.

Every kiss goodnight

is a plea disguised as ritual,

every hug a secret rehearsal

for absence I cannot bear.

I tuck the fear under pillows,

hide it between folded laundry,

bury it in the silence of the car ride home.

What they see:

a protector, unshaken.

What lives behind:

a raw animal,

sensing cliffs at every corner,

counting breaths in the dark

just to be sure they are still there.

We disguise it, this terror,

because love must look like light,

because children should not see

the mirror of our trembling.

But in the deep hours

when walls lean close,

the mask slides off,

and I kneel before the thought

like a captive at the edge of execution:

How fragile the thread.

How merciless the scissors.

How infinite the silence

if the thread should break.

And so I smile again at dawn,

paint the mask with morning sun,

knowing some truths

must remain hidden—

not to deceive,

but to keep the world whole

for as long as it will let me.