I was sick, so i sent out pictures of myself in blankets,
curled up miserably in bed with six boxes of tissues beside me
and each of my friends sent me their love in response.

I was sick,
so when you asked,
i listed my symptoms like they were my favorite actors and you promised you’d give me yesterday’s homework.

I was sick,
so i accepted soup and tea and let myself complain loudly.
But when i was too sad to function or having a panic attack or unable to stomach another day of being broken,
i sent out no pictures of myself.
Even though i was wrapped up, miserable and alone in sweaty blankets, surrounded by six boxes of tissues.
I told no one what was happening,
i said, “I’m fine, i’m tired, it’s been a long week,”
i lied through my sorry teeth and made myself walk through each day like a battlefield.

And i accepted no help because i didn’t deserve it,
took no time off because i couldn’t afford it.

I was sick, sure,
but it wasn’t real enough and when i was growing up, unless i was throwing up, i was alive enough to get things done
so i told myself i wasn’t sick at all,
just too lazy and stupid to focus,
just a big disappointment.

I was sick but i didn’t want to ask for attention or make people think i was too weird to be their friend or be one giant burden.

I was sick so i suffered in silence.