I smiled like it was stitched there,
like maybe if i faked light,
the dark would forget me.

They called me strong,
but only after watching me break
and not bleed loud enough.

I loved like a house on fire-
burning warmth,
but choking in smoke.

Sometimes, I whisper to mirrors:
"Who saved you when you saved them?"
The silence echoes me.

I carry old versions of myself
like ghosts in my pcoket-
some still cry when the room gets quiet.

And maybe that's the twist:
the softest people
learn to vanish first.