Broken Smiles

The light flickers dim behind the cracked mirror,

a mouth half-open, jagged lines where teeth don’t meet.

I smile anyway,

though the space yells louder than the quiet.

A laugh from the other side—

distant, sharp, chewing at the gap like it’s something wrong,

a broken flag waved too fast in the wind.

I press my tongue to that absence,

a silent shout I can’t swallow down.

The sink is cluttered—chipped brushes,

faded tubes that never quite run out.

And still, the grin pulls crooked,

a crooked thing that says,

I am here,

broken but unashamed,

sharp edges catching light,

shimmering stubborn.