is smiling up at you
like you are offering something to her
but your hands are empty;
so unlike her head,
which spirals and curls
its little thoughts into
a frenzy—a fine frenzy
of all the ones she loves.

She’s thinking about
what you’re thinking about
and hoping it’s something like
”I sure do love her smile”—
but even if it isn’t, it makes her happy
to know that maybe
you’re thinking of her that way.

And she holds a lot of contempt
toward things you don’t understand—
because mostly she’s always said it
as if they didn’t matter.
She likes to play things off
as if they’re pointless,
but really, she’s broken up inside.

And someday you’ll find out
that everything she’s told you
was said with false smile—
even if you find it more attractive
that way. She’ll always tell the truth,
but you’ll learn in due time
that the lies she’s handing out
are all buried in her face.

And you always wondered why
her smile never reached
as deeply in her eyes
like when she looks at you.

04/01/2008

Author's Note: Self-portrait. /I feel iffy about the fourth stanza./

Posted on 04/01/2008
Copyright © 2010 Rachel C Johnson