What’s the point of faking happy
when every laugh feels like a lie,
when every joke is just a decoy
to hide the part of me that wants to die.
The mirror knows my real face,
the one that sags when no one sees,
the eyes that stare at ceilings,
begging night to cut me free.
I say “I’m fine” like a password,
a code that keeps them from the truth,
because if they knew how loud it gets,
they’d hear the screaming of my youth.
The point of faking happy
isn’t hope or some bright end.
It’s just a way to stall the fall,
to last one more day,
and call it “pretend.”
Through the Fog 