22.09.20
At this point I've stopped bothering, it doesn't matter.
Even when I disappear for an hour or two
the only question they ask is:
"where were you?"
Smiling with red eyes, wiping away the mascara tears,
My only reply "just upstairs".
With a quick "oh" and a nod,
they look back to what they were doing
as I try my hardest to not start crying.
I sit down and pretend I'm studying
hoping that the mascara tears aren't too revealing,
not that it matters, they see what they want.
Focusing on my fake smile, they don't see the mascara smudging.
YOU ARE READING
4. Memories and Feelings That Still Haunt Me
PoetryI've cried too hard for too long as I debated death. Over and over, all I wanted was a quick overdose, a quick way to escape the pain. Until the guilt set it and made me realise, suicide feels too selfish. Instead I turned my sadness into art and my...
