The Oldest Child

In this house of perfect smiles, where laughter’s painted on too tight, I wear the mask they built for me— the golden one that cracks at night. They call me strong, the steady hand, the one who “always finds a way.” But no one sees the trembling bones that ache beneath the bright display. The others stumble, others weep— and arms rush out to hold them near. I break in silence, deep and neat, and not a soul will volunteer. My worth is weighed in quiet grace, in grades and chores and swallowed cries. They never ask what it has cost to keep the peace, to stay disguised. Perfection’s crown cuts through my hair, its jewels are teeth that bite my skull. They say I’m lucky—look at her, the perfect child, so dutiful. But when the lights go dim upstairs, and echoes hum through empty halls, I hear my sanity unspool, a ribbon dragging down the walls. And still—I smile, just like they taught. A puppet stitched in golden thread. Because if I scream, they’ll only say, “It’s all inside your head.”