18. Smoke Signals

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I wear a smile like a borrowed mask,
one size too tight—
it pinches at the corners,
but no one notices.
They see teeth, not the tremble.

There’s a room somewhere,
filled with light and easy laughter,
but I’m just a shadow at the doorway,
fingertips on glass.
They toast each other
while I sip smoke
from a cracked cup of effort.

I try—God, I try—
folding myself into smaller shapes
to fit inside
what they call "enough."
But the more I shrink,
the more the silence grows.

My words fog the air,
drifting like smoke signals
no one bothers to read.
I want to scream,
but I only whisper,
because I’ve learned that noise
is a luxury
for those who already belong.

Each step forward
feels like a performance—
another mask, another role.
I forget which face is mine.
Is it the bright one?
The brave one?
Or the one I hide in mirrors?

I’m tired of being the outline—
the space around the fire
but never the flame.
Tired of reaching
through smoke
for something real
only to find
my hands come back empty,
again.