Im glad they buy this version of me,
the polished one,
the smiling one,
the one who fits neatly
into the outline of “fine.”

They believe it so easily.
Why wouldn’t they?
It’s brighter,
lighter,
easier to hold
than the truth.

The truth is,
the real me was shelved
along time ago,
left to collect dust in the dark.

Now I wake each morning,
slip on this costume
like it’s second skin,
play the part until curtain call,
and no one notices
that behind the mask
my face is still wet
from last night’s crying.