ββββ ΰ¨ΰ§ ββββ
The smile sits neatly, stitched in place,
A practiced thing, a borrowed face,
I know the lines, I know the role,
How strange to fake a scripted soul.
They speak of sparks like gospel hymns,
Of aching hearts and wedding rings,
And I just nod, perform my part,
A paper actor, stage-made heart.
I wear my mask till skin feels thin,
Till silence settles in my ribs,
A bitter taste, a quiet ache,
How much of me must I forsake?
Still, somewhere past the painted glass,
Beyond the version built to last,
There waits a self Iβve yet to show,
Soft as truth and sharp as no.
ββββ ΰ¨ΰ§ ββββ