They ask me how
I'm doing.
I say I'm doing just fine.
Absolutely fine.
But maybe fine means something else.
Fine.
Fine means I'm hurt,
broken,
scared,
torn apart.
I feel unloved.
I feel unwanted.
I don't know what to do anymore.
So maybe I'm not fine.
Still, I'll say that I am.
Because I don't know what else to say.
What can I say?
If I say I'm perfectly okay,
it'd be a lie.
If I tell the truth;
tell them that I'm in pain,
tortured,
suffering..
then, they'd call me conceited;
"looking for attention".
They wouldn't know,
no one knows.
Only I know.
I know that it's slowly killing me.
I know that no one ever feels the exact same way,
because no one is the same.
So, I'll say I'm fine.
I'll hide behind my fake smile,
I'll cry behind my hazel eyes.
I'll look fine.
Perfectly fine.
It's hard to tell anymore.
Hard to tell if someone's actually happy,
or if it's just a mask.
Maybe that gleam in their eye isn't as much of a gleam,
maybe it's more like a tear.
Welling,
holding in tight,
trying not to fall down their face.
Why?
No one can know.
We; I can't let anyone see my cry.
I have to look fine.
I have to fit their standards.
I have to look strong,
be thin,
look pretty,
and dress in expensive clothes.
And if I don't?
I'll look even less of fine.
I would be even less of fine.
So yeah, I guess I'm just fine.
j.p.
