that I look just fine, except I'm not.
I'm the most broken a human can be.
Sorry if you ever thought
"oh she's a fun person to talk to". I'm not,
you just didn't talk to me long enough
to find out what's under these carefully put
layers of false confidence and alleged
inner peace.
I look calm to you as I carry my suitcase
and coffee cup, go into the elevator,
press floor no 12 and go
to my office with a broad smile on my face.
Truth is, ever since I stepped into the building,
my eyes rummaged for all the exit routes,
I made plans in my head on how to keep safe
if a gunshot comes through that door
or this window,
or if a missile hits the nearby supermarket,
or if someone with a knife follows me.
I can smell danger, even when it's
not really there.
So, I'm really sorry if my mask ever falls off
and you get to see the shredded pieces
I glued together scatter everywhere.
I'm sorry if I suck at caring.
I can't care
with a numb mind.
It's like asking someone
with paralyzed arms for a hug.
It's like poking a dead body and expecting
an answer.
So, I'm sorry for the 100th time
that I'm not okay.
I wish I were.
