It's just emptiness.
It's not sadness
or even a lack
of happiness.
It's not being able
to feel anything at all.
I can fake it—
I can fake happiness so well
and I always could
and you've never seen
a fake smile that looked
so real—
but when I come home
and sit in my bedroom by myself,
all alone,
the mask falls off
and it reminds me of
when my class did a "Wax Museum"
in 5th grade—
I'm hollow and empty and lifeless
until someone approaches me
and I have to come alive.
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...
