Smile More

“You should smile more,” they say—

half-grins dipped in judgment,

the kind of tone men use

when they think they’re teaching you something

you never asked to learn.

Their voices puffed up

with that lazy confidence

that comes from a lifetime

of assuming they know better.

“You’d be prettier,”

they add,

with fingers that feel like fishhooks

digging into the corners of my mouth,

dragging my lips open

so they can admire the performance

they expect from me.

“Smile—why are you so angry?”

As if happiness is a mask

I owe the world.

As if my worth

is measured by the angle

of my damn jawline.

“You should smile—men will like you more.”

Ah, there it is.

The holy altar of male approval.

Like my existence hangs

by the thin string

of some man’s opinion.

Like a smile makes me acceptable.

Manageable.

Easier to control.

All soft edges and submission

while they soak in the comfort

of my silence.

“Smile and give us what we want,”

they demand—

your compliance,

your pleasantries,

your pretty little obedience.

But hear me clearly:

no.

My smile is not a service.

It is not a tip,

or a courtesy,

or a free sample of my softness.

It is mine—

and it will be given

on my terms

or not at all.

So let them choke

on their discomfort.

Let them twitch

at the word they hate most—

“no.”

A word they should’ve learned

a long damn time ago.