you were always alone in suffering,
you hide on your most vulnerable days,
no matter how many friends you made
nor how real they were,
it's a reflex to conceal your face.
a year,
a year of bottled-up feelings
of anxiety, insecurities, dejection,
a year for positivity and pretense,
you are but a master of diversion.
perhaps,
perhaps,
perhaps,
no year begins anew without collapse.
