??          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.