The Underneath

I walk like nothing’s wrong, keep my voice controlled.
Hands steady, eyes straight, every weakness on hold.
But there’s something twitching in the corners of my calm,
something sharp behind my quiet, pressing from the dark.

I play normal—go to work, shake hands, laugh on cue.
But there’s a heat inside my chest that’s always burning through.
Every word rehearsed, every story trimmed.
But under it all, something claws and grins.

It waits when I’m quiet, paces in my skull.
Whispers in the silence, when the daylight dulls.
It’s there in the twitch I pretend’s just a cough,
in the urge to break things, or just take off.

I wash my hands, I lock the doors, I check the lights.
But nothing I do can hold it back at night.
It’s not a ghost, not a wound you can see.
It’s the part of me that isn’t me.

Some nights I give in, let the mask slip down.
Feel it stretch my face, hear it in my sound.
I close my eyes and almost let go,
but I remember tomorrow, and nobody knows.

Underneath my skin, behind my teeth,
something hungry moves, something breathes.
I smile for the world, keep my secrets deep,
but the monster in my bones doesn’t sleep.

Underneath the quiet, underneath the skin,
there’s a monster naming terror, wearing my own grin.
I keep the mask, I keep the smile,
but in the dark, I reconcile.

I am not alone, never free—
there’s something living underneath.
And it’s got teeth.
And it’s got me.