The Cry Behind the Smile
There is a cry behind the smile,
a small, trembling thing
pressed against my ribs,
listening to laughter
as though it belongs
to someone else.
Most people never hear it.
They see the curve of my lips,
the practiced ease,
the sunlight I offer
like a welcome mat.
They do not see
the storm cellar beneath.
The cry lives there.
It gathers every disappointment,
every goodbye,
every moment I needed saving
and was told to be strong instead.
It knows the taste of swallowed words,
the salt of tears dried before dawn,
the ache of standing in crowded rooms
feeling invisible.
Still,
the smile appears.
Not because the cry has vanished,
but because life asks me
to keep moving.
So I carry both.
The smile,
bright as a lantern.
The cry,
heavy as a stone in my pocket.
One helps me greet the world.
The other reminds me
that wounds do not disappear
simply because they are hidden.
Sometimes, late at night,
when silence loosens its grip,
the cry slips out.
Not as a scream.
Not as a breaking.
But as a whisper.
A soft confession
to the darkness:
I am tired.
I am hurting.
I am still here.
And somehow,
that is enough.
By morning,
the smile returns.
Not as a lie,
but as evidence—
that the cry and I
have survived another night
together.
Simona A. Brinson
Photo by Andreia Cunha on Unsplash
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