covered in a smile.
No one would think
that anything is wrong.
Sometimes, a glimmer of depression
will peek out of the mask
she put on in the morning.
But no one notices.
She laughs at the jokes told
at the expense of people who are different:
Slut, emo-kid, preppy know-it-all,
bitch, dyke.
"That's so gay," she'll comment,
as her hands grasp
the long sleeves that hide her truth.
She knows that telling anyone who she really is
would ruin her life in this hell-hole.
So she locks up her feelings
and saves them for home.
That's when it starts:
I haven't cried in years, she thinks.
Slowly, not-so steadily,
her skin is met by cold steel
and warmth pours from the new openings
added to an old collection.
Her parents aren't home.
Or rather, they are and they just
don't bother.
She doesn't even care.
All that matters
is how much she wants to feel:
the caress of someone who
actually loves her,
the tingle inside that happens when
she truly laughs for the first time,
the touch of a parent who
wants to keep her safe from harm...
Her parents won't find her
until it is too late.
For once, mother will utter the words
"I love you" to the limp body on the ground.
The father? He'll just stand there and say,
"She brought it on herself..."
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