Sometimes
my pain is a fire
that burns me, a beast
that rends me, a battle
to be fought and lost.

And sometimes
I just need to
sit here and stare at
the walls while I watch
the tide come in.

You asked me how you can know
when I am not alright,
because as my skill at painting grows
the murals on my walls become more lifelike
until the differences disappear.

I cannot tell you how long
these cracks in my facade will last,
but I can tell you this:

Look for the blood under my nails.

Look for the blank, empty stare of my eyes
as my mouth contorts itself into a smile.

Listen for the faint sound of rising hysteria,
a note of sobbing amidst my laughter.

Watch and see whether I can hold your gaze,
if I'm looking into your eyes
or just pretending to by staring
at the center of your forehead.

Wait for my silences, and watch my face
to see it twitch a bit every time they are broken.

Notice when I am bit less willing
to let go of you at the end of our embrace.

Count the minutes I take in the bathroom,
to know whether or not blood is dripping
onto the tiles.

As cliched as it might sound,
look for the dark circles under my eyes.

Remember the way I am when I am happy,
for I surely cannot.

And when you have taken note of all these things,
do nothing,
unless you want them painted over, too.

Sometimes my
memories are
too sharp
and I run
away to
the now
where you wait
for me and
I try not
to seem out
of breath.