The Mask

I became good at wearing faces.

The smiling one.

The laughing one.

The hardworking one who had it all together.

People praised that mask like it was me,

and I let them.

It was easier to play the part

than to let them see the ruins inside.

Behind closed doors, I was unraveling.

Mornings were battles.

Nights were wars.

The bottle kept me steady enough to pretend,

the pills quieted the screams long enough

to make it through another day at work,

another dinner table,

another conversation that began with, “How are you?”

and ended with me saying, “I’m fine.”

But “fine” was a lie I told so often

it carved itself into my throat.

And every time I said it,

I swallowed a little more truth,

buried it deeper beneath the mask.

People thought I was strong.

They thought I was thriving.

They didn’t know I counted every hour I survived

as if it were a punishment.

They didn’t see the nights I couldn’t bear the silence,

so I filled it with smoke,

with drinks,

with anything that numbed the storm.

The mask was convincing—

until it wasn’t.

Until cracks began to form.

Until exhaustion made me careless

and sorrow leaked through my practiced smile.

Until someone close enough asked the question differently,

not, “Are you okay?”

but, “I can see you’re not.”

And in that moment,

the mask felt heavier than the truth.