Inside

I wear my calm like lacquered glass,

smooth as silence,

unbroken as noon light

but the cracks beneath hum softly,

a web of whispering faults.

Each smile is a practiced syllable,

a mask that fits too well.

You’d never guess

how often I rearrange the truth

so it doesn’t stare back too hard.

At night,

when the mirror forgets its duty

and darkness takes its place,

the hidden self unbuttons its skin

steps out in bare reflection,

breathing, finally, without costume.

It does not weep or roar.

It listens.

It waits.

It knows me better than my name.

And when morning asks for brightness,

I slip back inside

and close the seam

as if it were never open.