In The Mirror, She Smiles

She smiles in the mirror,
and out in the world.

She tells herself she’s okay.
But she’s not.

No one can tell,
but her smile swells.

Her feet ache
from always standing up for others.

Under the mask
is a girl who feels.

But in the mirror,
she forces a smile.

She says that this is normal.
But it’s not.
It never will be.

She doesn’t know that yet.

She thinks everyone has a mask.
Everyone has a fake smile.
But she just wanted
to see their real ones.

When she gets home,
she’ll cry—alone.

But then,
back to the mirror she goes.

She forces a smile,
wipes all the tears
until she looks
“normal.”

She doesn’t know
that normal is feeling.
Normal is angry.
Normal is sad.

But normal
isn’t forcing a smile
in the mirror.

She looks again.
The smile flickers.

For a second—
she doesn’t see the glossy eyes,
but the tired girl behind them.

She almost stops smiling.
Almost.

But then she remembers:
People like smiley girls.
People like happy girls.
People like her
when she’s wearing the mask.

So she pulls the smile tighter,
her cheekbones go higher.

She practices the laugh
that hides all the cracks.

Maybe tomorrow
she’ll take the mask off.
Maybe.

But for now—
in the mirror,
she smiles.