The Bones Beneath My Smile

Every morning I iron my face flat.

A crisp crease down the center,

eyebrows aligned,

mouth on standby.

I'm not awake - I'm assembled.

-

I wave to the neighbor

who trims his hedges to the same height

every Saturday like he's holding

the edge of the world together.

He waves back,

two men pretending the fence

isn't the only thing keeping us from screaming.

-

At work, I laugh too loudly.

I say Perfect too much.

The coffee tastes like burnt apologies

and the fluorescent lights hum

the same hymn they always do:

grind, grin, go on.

-

There's a framed quote by the copier

about teamwork and excellence.

I think about seetting it on fire,

just to see if anyone would notice

the warmth.

-

Lunch is a beige sandwich and a silent scroll

through lives shinier than mine.

Everyone's in Tuscany

or getting engaged

or discovering who they truly are

through pottery.

I'm discovering

that my jaw hurts from pretending to care.

-

By evening, I've used up all my sentences.

I nod through dinner,

compliment the seasoning,

listen to my partner list errands

like rosary beards of obligation.

We say love you the way people

lock doors out of habit.

-

When night comes, I stand in the mirror,

mouth hanging open like a wound.

Behind the teeth, I can feel

the hum of something buried -

a creature that wants out,

wants ruin, wants real.

I imagine it crawling up my throat,

rattling the cage of politeness.

-

One day, maybe it will.

Maybe I'll stop smiling first.

Maybe I'll answer the neighbor's wave

with a howl.

Maybe I'll let the bones

remember what they're for -

to break, to build,

to bite.