?? how many mirrors
does it take
to find a face
that isn’t
pretending?
i say: “i’m fine.”
but the words
taste like copper.
like they’ve been kept
in my mouth
too long.
someone asks me
if i’m okay,
and i flinch—
like the question
was a match
struck too close.
when did sincerity
become so sharp?
every smile now
feels like a riddle.
a locked box
with a laugh
coiled inside.
what is sarcasm
if not a second skin—
worn so long
it fits better
than truth?
my words walk backward.
i mean yes
but say maybe.
i say maybe
but mean:
please, stay.
the truth is:
i don’t know
what i’m saying anymore.
or if it’s
me
who’s speaking.
does the wind
mean it
when it howls?
does a shadow
know it’s lying
when it follows?
i try to speak softly—
but even whispering
sounds scripted.
like my voice
is reading lines
i don’t remember writing.
sometimes i ask questions
just to see
if i still believe
in answers.
is a compliment
still a gift
if you have to
unwrap it twice?
is a joke
still a joke
if no one laughs—
or if everyone does?
the truth sits
at the bottom
of a lake.
and i keep diving
with stones
in my pockets.
the surface smiles.
the surface always smiles.
i say:
“i didn’t mean it.”
but my hands
won’t stop shaking.
i say:
“just kidding.”
but the ache
doesn’t leave.
how do you hold
something honest
without bruising it?
how do you know
the echo
isn’t just
what you want
to hear?
maybe sarcasm
is just honesty
wearing gloves.
maybe i’ve spent so long
painting my words
that i’ve forgotten
what they looked like
plain.
maybe truth
isn’t gone—
just quiet.
just waiting
for someone
to stop laughing.
Apr 11, 2025
Apr 11, 2025 at 8:05 AM UTC
?? how many mirrors
does it take
to find a face
that isn’t
pretending?
i say: “i’m fine.”
but the words
taste like copper.
like they’ve been kept
in my mouth
too long.
someone asks me
if i’m okay,
and i flinch—
like the question
was a match
struck too close.
when did sincerity
become so sharp?
every smile now
feels like a riddle.
a locked box
with a laugh
coiled inside.
what is sarcasm
if not a second skin—
worn so long
it fits better
than truth?
my words walk backward.
i mean yes
but say maybe.
i say maybe
but mean:
please, stay.
the truth is:
i don’t know
what i’m saying anymore.
or if it’s
me
who’s speaking.
does the wind
mean it
when it howls?
does a shadow
know it’s lying
when it follows?
i try to speak softly—
but even whispering
sounds scripted.
like my voice
is reading lines
i don’t remember writing.
sometimes i ask questions
just to see
if i still believe
in answers.
is a compliment
still a gift
if you have to
unwrap it twice?
is a joke
still a joke
if no one laughs—
or if everyone does?
the truth sits
at the bottom
of a lake.
and i keep diving
with stones
in my pockets.
the surface smiles.
the surface always smiles.
i say:
“i didn’t mean it.”
but my hands
won’t stop shaking.
i say:
“just kidding.”
but the ache
doesn’t leave.
how do you hold
something honest
without bruising it?
how do you know
the echo
isn’t just
what you want
to hear?
maybe sarcasm
is just honesty
wearing gloves.
maybe i’ve spent so long
painting my words
that i’ve forgotten
what they looked like
plain.
maybe truth
isn’t gone—
just quiet.
just waiting
for someone
to stop laughing.