They don't understand.
They don't feel that way
when you break
a little more each day,
waiting for the end
to come your way.
They don't understand
how it feels to feel worthless,
to hate yourself,
to think everyone would be
better off without you.
They don't understand.
They don't see the tears
streaming down your face
in the middle of the night
or the voices in your head,
telling you
you're too much
and not enough
in the worst
possible way.
They don't understand
what it's like
to take your fist
and bruise your ribs,
to take a knife
and slit your wrist,
to wait to die
but remain alive,
and you don't know why
or what you're waiting for.
They don't understand
how it feels
to want to die,
say goodbye to everyone,
and believe they would be
happier if you were gone.
They don't understand
just how low it gets
behind the mask.
They don't understand
that the happiness
is an act,
that it's easier to pretend.
They don't understand
who I am,
what I want,
how I feel,
and that's my fault.
So they don't understand.
They don't feel that way.
And I don't say
anything about anything.
So we go on,
pretending we're okay,
but we're not,
and we're caught in between
a rock and a hard place—
both choices are bad:
be treated like damaged goods
or suffer in silence.
I choose the latter every time.
So they don't understand
that they don't understand.
YOU ARE READING
The Things We Don't Talk About
Poetry***Trigger Warning: Mental health, mental illness, eating disorders, suicidal ideation, self-harm*** A collection of poems delving into the dark side of the human experience. From high highs to low lows, emotion can be intense. And this collection s...
