They don’t know.

They don’t know that whenever I smile, it doesn’t reach my eyes; that there are tears pooling- trying to slip past long, dark eyelashes. They don’t see the lack of joy that used to flicker within my dark orbs, the pain that replaced it long ago.

They don’t know.

They don’t know that when I bundle up layers upon layers of clothing, it’s not because I’m cold; concealing the thin scars that run along my forearms hidden beneath vests beneath shirts beneath coats. They don’t know how some of them are still tinged red with crimson blood, insults and slurs embedded deep within the pale flesh.

They don’t know.

They don’t know that when I try to hide my tears, hide my cuts, hide my ribs, I still wish they would notice. I wish they would hold me through the agony of life and tell me everything is going to be okay, even if we both know those meagre words are nothing but lies.

They don’t know, but I want them to.

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