Do I look like it?
Like I’m ready to cry at the slightest thing?
Like I just want to curl up into a ball?
Do I look like my heart is in a constant inconsistency?
Like I half wish I wasn’t quite here?
Or do I look like everything is just fine.
Like nothing ever shakes me,
I don’t need your fervent prayers.
Do I look like that pretty girl in the field of violets?
With a careless smile and a flower crown?
She’s my mask friend.
The one who steals my desire to be known.
She fights her way to the top when it’s hardest for me,
Claiming excuses of it being “the right thing to do.”
If I gave her a name I’d be admitting defeat.
I’ve already been defeated.
She hates me with a passion.
She loves to hide my hurt.
Her instincts push away those I love
When I need them the most.
Her icy fingers hold me back as I scream from inside
I need you.
I want to cry.
I want to sob.
I want to collapse into your arms and let my heartache out into the open.
She got me in this prison, in this cage.
She loves to see me suffer.
I don’t know how to escape.
Sometimes I almost cry,
But her sharp slaps dry those tears before they appear.
“I will not let you out.”
This is some depressing poetry I wrote a while ago. I don’t know why, but here it is.
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