They love my smile,
say it's warm, bright, real.
They don't see the cracks beneath it.
They don't see the dried tears,
the scratches on my skin,
the blood under my nails,
the hair I've pulled out.
No one asks, no one knows.
Maybe my smile is too perfect.
Maybe that's why they don't see.
YOU ARE READING
Trapped in my own head
PoetryShe is an outcast. She finds it easier to express what she feels in the form of writing. Whether it is poems, letters or long texts. These are poems that she writes trying to describe how it feels to live with certain mental health issues, in a worl...
