I don’t deserve to be sad,

But this is not a good thing.

I am not good enough.

And I’m not wrecked enough either.

There are people out there,

Who would kill to have my privilege,

Who would die to have my life.

And yet I am still here,

Pathetically dejected,

Surrounded by kindness.

What an idiot,

What a selfish, spoiled brat.

Why can’t I be happy?

Why do I cry alone?

Because I’m stressed?

Because I’m tired?

Because I’m lonely?

Because I’m sick of not having a choice?

Get a life.

How dare I call myself shattered.

I’m horrible. I’m vain.

To even think I deserve that title.

Because I can pretend.

I can hide my pain,

In a pretty little box,

Tied off with a bow.

I can shove it,

Far into the corners of my mind,

And simply imagine it doesn’t exist.

It will push back,

It will bend and crack its prison.

But I can still conceal it.

The world will never know,

And that’s why I’m fine.

Because I might never snap,

Never collapse under the pressure of what I’m hiding,

At least never before the eyes of others.

Can I really say I’m hurting, if I amputate the wound with a smile?

Can I really call myself broken, if I can pretend I’m not?