They carved a smile where no smile could live, left me to wear what they would not forgive. A court-made relic, a freak on display, I bowed through the glare while they laughed me away. Behind the grin, a wounded child still breathes. A girl sees through the ruin and believes. The grin that won't heal — my crown, my seal. The more I smile, the less I'm real. The man who laughs — the wound made plain: a joke that lives, and will not close again. Glass in the palace, my face in the shine; they praise the deformity, call it design. Beauty and pity, all gilded and cold — I hear my own laughter bought, sold, and told. Touch the scar, if you must, like it might turn to grace. Love what remains, not the map of the face. The grin that won't heal — my crown, my seal. The more I smile, the less I'm real. The man who laughs — the wound made plain: a joke that lives, and will not close again. A smile cut deep. Still the crowd applauds.
