The Child Beneath the Smile

A poem about a girl who learned to smile through thunder—carrying wounds, silence, and survival beneath a borrowed laughter.

They said I was laughter’s daughter,
but I was born from thunder.
a ghost of a girl
who learned to grin between strikes of lightning.

They saw colors on my cheeks,
never the bruises carved by words.
My joy was performance,
a trick I perfected
to hide the graveyard in my chest.

I danced for them.
so they’d never ask why
my eyes looked like windows
that forgot what morning was.

They were children once.
I was a witness.
Their homes echoed with lullabies;
mine cracked under shouts
that split the night open.
I learned to shrink between echoes,
to make my tears invisible.

I was punished for being born a girl,
for breathing too softly,
for existing in rooms
that never wanted me whole.
I grew old at ten.
I carried worlds that weren’t mine to hold.

Now I laugh.
and the sound feels foreign,
like glass breaking under water.
They call it joy.
I call it survival.

Because I know how to bleed quietly,
how to die and still attend class,
how to collect my shattered self
and hide her behind a joke.

And when they rest their heads,
I stay awake.
talking to the dark,
telling it secrets
no one ever cared to hear.

Author's Note

Open to gentle, thoughtful feedback.
Let me know how the emotions landed and which lines stayed with you.