They notice the lines,
the pale ridges on my skin,
and their eyes turn into questions
they're too polite to voice.
"Why?"
they ask-
as if the answer could fit
in just a few words.
For a breath,
I want to open the floodgates-
let them hear the pounding in my head,
the silent screams pressed between my ribs,
the way my throat burns
from swallowing every cry.
I want to tell them
how hard it is to keep smiling
when all I want is to stop moving,
how heavy my chest feels,
how my body just wants to lie down
and never get up.
But I don't.
I shut the door to that place,
offer a small, easy lie.
"I'll be careful next time,"
I say-
and watch them nod,
not knowing
that next time
is already here.
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...
