our cheeks are porcelain pained
with smiles we are supposed to carry
i have discarded mine behind the dumpster
out back but you still wear yours
and at first i think it is because you are
scared of consequences
and that this smooth-to-touch has become a
crutch for you to
fill in the tracing cracks with your personality
an innocent mien
but when you blink your long doll lashes
your pupils breathe out the truth and your short
ponytailed hair sways and slipping it swears that you are
too afraid to wipe off this painted face
because you do not want people to
see what lies underneath the
plaster and underneath your
skin