The mirror shows a face
but not the voice behind the eyes.
It reflects
but does not reveal.

We walk with borrowed names,
wrapped in customs
stitched by those
who came before,
each thread a compromise,
a question
folded neatly into silence.

Truth is quieter than we expect.
It does not shout from podiums
or dress in perfect answers.
It waits,
sometimes beneath the breath
just before a choice is made.
Sometimes
in the weight of something
we dare not say aloud.

The world teaches masks.
Polished smiles.
Safe opinions.
But truth,
it lives in the crack,
in the tremble,
in the pause
between what is asked
and what we ache to say.

Not one gives it to us.
We dig.
We shed.
We stand still long enough
to hear ourselves again.

And there,
not in noise,
but in the marrow,
we find it.
Not perfect.
Not pretty.
But ours.