Her Secret

She has a whimsical delight about her.
Her smile always perfectly painted upon her face
and shine carefully drawn in her eyes.
Her laughter brings a melody to the dull air
but what is her secret?
Where are the tears she cries behind closed doors?
She touches her make believe face,
leaves a line down her cheek.
There.
You see her shame,
below the paint, beyond the lines.
Her facade was forced upon her,
this image of perfection she must carry,
stifling the sobs that echo throughout her bones.
Her delight is nothing but a fraud.
The smile has left wrinkles upon her skin.
There is no actual brightness behind her grin.
Her sobs rise about her laughter.
The silence of shame burns in her shadows.
Is that her secret?
Her imperfection bubbles below,
below the paint, tucked between these lines.
She wears her shame,
holding tight to her own lie.