The Mask Fits Too Well
I'm only thirteen—
they say that's too young
to know what breaking feels like.
So I smile.
I laugh at the right jokes,
say "I'm fine" before they ask,
and fold my storms
into pockets no one checks.
Some nights
my memories knock like thunder
on a house already shaking.
The past still remembers my name
even when I try to forget it.
They call me strong.
But strength isn't never crying.
It's carrying invisible mountains
to school every morning,
finishing homework
with hands that still tremble,
and choosing tomorrow
even when today feels heavy.
I wear happiness
like a borrowed sweater—
warm enough for everyone else,
never quite my size.
If you looked closely,
you'd see the cracks
filled with quiet courage,
the kind that grows
where flowers shouldn't.
Maybe healing
doesn't arrive all at once.
Maybe it starts
with one deep breath,
one sunrise,
one tiny spark whispering,
"You are still here."
And maybe that's enough.
Because I am thirteen.
Still learning.
Still hurting.
Still hiding.
But somehow,
still standing.