Living with the lonely.

I hide the lonely
under flannel sheets,
pretending it's a force
I can detach from
at the start of the day.

I hide the lonely
when we're sipping coffee,
hoping you will ask how I've been,
because shouldn't you know?
Depression wears a mask,
and I've always hated how
you call me a happy-go-lucky kid,
and envision me as something
that feels so false, unattainable.

I hide the lonely
when it's been a year and you
still refer to me as daughter,
saying "she" a dozen times;
even though it doesn't rattle
me much in the moment,
I wonder why you can't stop
and think before speaking.

I hide the lonely
when I hate myself for
bringing it up later,
careful to set boundaries,
careful to be polite,
but feeling like I ruined the moment.

I hide the lonely
without even trying,
it's not that difficult.
It's an invisible presence,
a reminder of life's absence,
and unless you're looking closely
or you ask about my day,
hearing my breath catch,
you would never know.

My heart hurts when the time
we spend together is lost in the
rush - and you don't take a second
glance, or pause to make sure
I'm doing alright.