I learned my face
the way others learn prayers.
Carefully.
Repeatedly.
Until it sounded like belief.
**
A smile, worn thin at the edges.
A calm borrowed from habit.
I fasten them on
before the world can ask
what hurts today.
**
They call it strength
when my voice does not shake.
They do not see the trembling
folded neatly inside my chest,
or how silence
has learned my name.
**
Some masks are born of fear.
Others are shaped by love.
I wear both.
One teaches me what to hide.
The other, why.
**
There are rooms
where honesty breaks things.
Where truth arrives too heavy-handed.
So I soften myself.
I make endurance look graceful.
**
At night,
when even mirrors turn away,
the mask loosens its grip.
What remains is not ruin,
but a quiet vow
to keep going.
**
If my smile pauses,
just long enough to be noticed,
do not call it deception.
This is not performance.
This is survival,
recited daily
until it holds.
***
About the Creator
Aarsh Malik
Poet, Storyteller, and Healer.
Sharing self-help insights, fiction, and verse on Vocal.
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Comments (2)
The explanation about the two types of masks is poetic artistry. It felt like a delicate broth that can be irrevocably changed with overheating. But... What you've written is so true. *Wowed*
yes, masks are survival-especially in busy minds