her #

every risky text she sent ended the same way—
a casual “lol,”
profound conversations met with a joke,
deflecting like it was second nature.

in her voice, there was always this quiet sarcasm,
like a defense mechanism, subtle,
layered beneath everything she said.

she never made eye contact,
as if looking too long might give something away.
afraid to connect,
like bonds were too sacred,
too fragile to hold.
her eyes would flicker somewhere else,
always dodging— a silent joke she played with herself.

she laughed at the world,
laughed at pain like it was all part of some joke.
her life, one long stand-up routine,
a stage where she performed to keep it all at bay.

but under that laughter, there was always something more.
like she had a backup plan,
something to fall on when the world inevitably turned cold.

in the spotlight, she danced with her despair,
spinning beneath the bright lights where no one could see
the fear.
her jokes were her armor, her smiles, her shield—
a maze she built to keep everything else out.

and within that maze, she stayed,
laughing,
as the world passed by,
never really seeing her.