When the Glass is Empty

You only smile like that

when you’re drinkin—

that loose, half-forgotten grin

that shows up

after the edges blur.

It’s not happiness.

It’s relief pretending to be joy.

A borrowed light

that flickers just long enough

to make everyone believe you’re okay.

Your eyes give it away.

They don’t soften—

they drift.

Like you’ve stepped a few inches outside yourself

and left the rest behind to cope.

I’ve seen that smile disappear

as fast as it arrives,

leave you emptier than before,

like laughter echoing in a room

no one stays in.

You wear it well, though.

Convincing.

Almost beautiful.

The kind of smile that makes people think

the problem is solved.

But I know better.

That smile only shows up

when the ache is muted,

when the truth is diluted,

when feeling less

feels safer

than feeling everything.

And when the glass is empty,

so is the room.