Hidden things

It's interesting how many people believe the mask. I swear that people could see through the mask and know,  but then again most people don't care enough to look deeper. That's the sad truth. Even people who claim to care about me dearly don't see through the mask when I don't want them to.

But sometimes, I wish they could see the truth, that beneath my smile and pleasant conversation, beneath the professional focus on my work, beneath my drive to be the best mom to my daughter and show her that I am happy- beneath it all, I am slowly dying inside. It feels like my insides are full of glass shards. It hurts to even breathe sometimes and takes everything I have in me to not break down in tears in front of everyone, to save my tears until after my daughter is in bed and I can let that pain escape in rivers down my cheeks.

I say that I am okay. I say that I'm over it, that I'm not torn up inside. That it doesn't kill me every night when I lay down to sleep alone, without that person who had a piece of my heart. That seeing that empty spot on the couch where he used to sit doesn't hurt at all. That it doesn't feel like a giant knife in my heart when I find a piece of clothing left behind.

I say that I feel nothing, that my heart is hardened from the pain of this loss.

But I'm lying.

I feel it so deeply and so painfully that it almost overtakes me. Almost.

I wish things had gone differently. I wish it had been real.

I guess I will have to fake it until I make it, because there is no turning back.

So I will cry myself to sleep every night until eventually there are no tears left to cry. I will carefully apply makeup every morning to hide that I didn't sleep again. I will wish his arms were around me again in secret and pretend I am better off alone.

I will keep what I really feel hidden because it is simply too dangerous to show it: