it's the little things, like
sleeping in on purpose so your appointment gets cancelled,
or avoiding texts from a friend
because you know they like to talk too much
and you'd rather not talk to anyone.
it's lying to your friend group that you have work to do at lunch,
and spend time in the library trying not to fall apart.
it's the crying before dinner and worrying if your family might've noticed your red eyes.
it's the late nights of trying to fill your brain with something
but you're too numb to think of anything to distract you from the weighing of your chest.
it's the self pity you feel when reading back on old diary entries - pages upon pages of written sadness -
and the confused unrecognizable soul you see in the mirror,
with shaking hands and the same clothes on from last week.
it's the plans you fail to do, like simply going out,
lying to yourself there will be a next time.
it's forgetting to get out of bed and spending 4 hours sitting still in the dark trying to figure out what is wrong with you.
it's the strain of your hand when you're writing a stream of thoughts you could never show anyone.
it's wishing you didn't have the ability to think sometimes.