Therapy Bits

Each morning,
I pull the sky over my shoulders like a coat
too heavy for summer,
too thin for winter.

I press a smile onto my face
like a sticker that’s lost its glue
but still clings out of habit.
Edges curling.
Corners straining.

People see me
and think I am fine—
laughter like cracked glass,
eyes that shine with all the wrong reflections.
No one asks why I always say “I’m just tired.”
It’s a good lie.
Polite.
Believable.
Safe.

Inside,
there’s a silence louder than sirens,
a room with no doors,
just mirrors reflecting someone
I barely remember knowing.

I drag myself through days
like a ghost haunting my own life,
showing up
smiling,
smiling,
smiling—
as if pretending
could make it true.

I am fluent in invisible wounds,
in swallowing whole thunderstorms
and calling them “just stress.”
The world wants cheer.
So I serve it,
like ash shaped into cake,
like smoke drawn into hearts.

But at night,
when the mirror has no audience,
I let the mask slip,
watch it fall
and shatter
into a thousand tiny “I’m fine”s.
And I sit there,
barefaced,
beneath a moon that doesn’t judge,
wishing someone, anyone,
could see the truth
and stay.

Not to fix me—
just to sit
and know
I am trying.

Paint