The perfect disguise

She paints the morning on with careful strokes, A bright, hollow gold to keep the questions away, A masterpiece of "fine" and "okay" and jokes, To guard the bruised colors of the gray. ​Her laughter is a curtain, thick and wide, Drawn tight against the dampness in her chest, A perfect, polished place for her to hide, Where every aching thought is laid to rest. ​She’s the architect of a beautiful lie, Building a fortress out of a grin, So no one can see the storm in her eye, Or the quiet collapse of the girl within. ​But when the door locks and the lights go dim, The costume falls heavy to the floor, She drowns in the truth she forced to the rim, Until she can’t feel the smile anymore.