I Watched Her in Mirrors
by Dawg
I watched her in mirrors
that didn’t know how to lie.
Caught glimpses in the spaces between seconds,
where the smile slipped–
and the girl beneath
trembled like something feral
chained to a memory too cruel to name.
She didn’t talk about it.
Didn’t ask for comfort.
Didn’t flinch when love got too close–
just pulled the smile tighter,
like a noose made of politeness and patience.
Once, in bed,
she smiled while saying she was fine,
and I touched her cheek like it might split
and leak truth.
She kissed back
like someone memorizing a story
she never got to live in.
She smiled at her mother’s funeral
because someone had to.
She smiled during sex
because he wanted her to.
She smiled at her reflection
because it didn’t talk back.
But behind it–
behind every stretch of lip, every photo,
every quiet agreement and crowded room–
was a girl screaming
into a locked jaw
too proud to break open.
She smiled until her face forgot how to cry.
Until the muscles ached but still obeyed.
Until someone said, “You’re the strongest person I know,”
and she went home and fell apart
in total silence.
Behind that smile
was a war.
One she fought daily,
with mascara as war paint
and routine as armor.
And no one ever asked
why her hands shook when they held joy.