Cracks in my character, like veins in old marble,
showing where the pressure got too much.
I smile like nothing’s wrong,
but the lines run deep,
and every kind word chips away a little more.
And the chips crumble, fall to the ground,
turned to dust in the slightest wind.
They scatter, forgotten, while I stand,
still smiling, still cracked,
wondering how much of me is left.