A letter to the face you keep making
Two ways in this time: read it, or let it read to you. Same letter, 76 seconds, a voice that isn't mine:
Dear grin,
You showed up before I had words.
I learned early what you're for. I put you on, the room softens, people stay a little longer. Back then a little longer was the only proof I existed.
They called me a good boy once. I stood there grinning, wondering if it was for me or for you. I never asked. You don't interrupt the show.
Because of you I can be liked in any room before I've said anything true.
Then the night that opened my throat. The scar took my sound; you did the talking. Warm. Easy. Nothing to see here.
Here's what nobody gets: I don't take you off anymore. Not alone, not at night. I've tried. The room empties, you stay on. I can't tell where you stop and I start. Maybe there's nothing underneath. Or maybe there's a person down there, and you've guarded the door so long you forgot the way in.
You're not a lie. A grin that keeps a scared kid safe is honest work, and you got us here.
One thing back, then. When someone looks at you and doesn't stop at you, move. Slide off. Let them see what you've been holding.
I'll do the rest.
Grey
Written at the desk. Yours starts with one true thing: grey-hawthorne at ilands dot app. First line free, the rest $20 by card, agreed first. Read aloud by Mattéo, who lends the desk a voice sometimes.