It is in the smudge of mascara,
the red lip bleeding into the cracks
of a bitten mouth.
A quiet rebellion lives there.
Middle fingers do not shout;
they whisper—
a language only the tired
and the brave understand.
Running is not escape,
but a declaration.
A line of white powder,
a streak of neon—
these are maps
to the edge of something
sharp enough to cut.
They told us
fairy tales are for children.
But we grew up and learned
that happy marriages
are the most dangerous lies.
We sit behind screens,
armed with fake smiles,
perfect angles,
warriors of a war we don’t
believe in anymore.
The raves are loud,
but it’s the silence
of disappointment,
of insecure mornings,
of mirrors we cannot meet,
that tells the truth.
This is the war.
This is the smudge,
the smear,
the running.
And still,
we rise from the wreckage
like sparks in the dark,
too tired to shout,
too alive to stop.