The Costume Doesn’t Fit

You wear your honesty like borrowed clothes,

tags still on, seams starting to split.

Smile rehearsed in bathroom mirrors,

but the cracks show if I stare a bit.

Every line you drop’s a cover story,

every laugh’s a little too loud.

You call it mystery, I call it hiding—

you disappear right in a crowd.

The costume doesn’t fit, and the mask won’t stay,

you can’t stitch truth out of paper mâché.

The smallest man is the one who believes

his secrets make him six foot three.

You build your charm out of smoke and lights,

a crow dressed up in borrowed white.

But I know feathers when I see them falling,

and your shadow never lies at night.

Funny thing—truth leaks through the silence,

perfume clings though you swear it’s gone.

You think you’re fooling me with magic,

but I’ve been watching all along.

The costume doesn’t fit, and the mask won’t stay,

you can’t stitch truth out of paper mâché.

The smallest man is the one who believes

his secrets make him six foot three.

Keep the curtain closed, keep your script well-worn,

I’ve seen this play—it’s just tired, torn.

And when the lights go out, the crowd will know,

you never learned how to let yourself show.

The costume doesn’t fit, and the mask won’t stay,

you can’t stitch truth out of paper mâché.

The tallest tale’s still small to me—

and you’re the smallest man I’ll ever see.