Writers 
The Smile,i borrowed.
The type I always wear when life sucks
the kind that says, “I’m fine,”
even when I’m falling apart inside.
I learned to smile through pain
so well that sometimes,
I forget I’m hurting.
I wish someone had asked twice,
not because they didn’t hear my “I’m fine,”
but because they cared enough
to wonder if it was true.
My lips have even learned
how to spread into a smile
without waiting for instructions.
It happens automatically now,
like breathing,
like pretending.
The only time I smile genuinely
is when I stare at the clouds.
There’s something about the sky
so vast, so free, so beautiful
that makes pretending feel unnecessary.
Yet, I can stand among my peers
and still feel invisible.
I have words sitting heavily on my tongue,
but I swallow them
because somehow,
I’m afraid that speaking
might change everything.
So I smile.
I smile when I want to cry.
I smile when I have nothing to say.
I smile because people expect me to.
Not because I’m happy.
Not because I like it.
But because sometimes,
a borrowed smile
is easier than explaining
why the real one disappeared.
