Hidden things

The mirror reflects a practiced grace, The perfect lines of a public face. A tilt of the head, a scripted "I’m fine," While tracing a map of a fault line. They see the spark, the easy laugh, But never the broken, jagged half. To be a teen is to live in the "almost," A ghost in a room where you’re the host. You speak in a tongue they claim to know, Yet the roots of the ache are left to grow. "It’s just a phase," the elders sigh, While a universe collapses behind your eye.