i am not okay.

i am there when my friends need me,
listening,
giving out advice like it's christmas,
and they are the salvation army,
ringing bells.

i am distant sometimes; i rarely answer texts
and not once has anyone
ever
wondered why.

i get sad, and i have never told
anyone
as to why that might be.
but they have never asked
either.

because
who wants to hear the woes
of the broken girl
lost in her own mind,
utterly unsure.

but sometimes, i have an overwhelming
emptiness
digging into my bones,
and i want to speak but find myself
unable.

trapped in my silence,
my inability to break this image of
near perfection
that i have worked so hard to
obtain.

even though i dispute it,
and despise everything about this
person
i have created, that's how
they see me.

when they ask if i'm okay,
i always reply "yes," or
"i will be"
because i have to be
to survive.

but what i may want to say,
what i wish i could scream
from the tops of roofs
and the ends of the sea
is that i am drowning.

i look in the mirror
and i hate
everything;
i want to claw at myself, and tear away
the ugly.

i want to rip apart
the blonde and blue,
replace it with dark brown
and muted grays,
and disappear.

i want to tear
at the angry red marks
that litter my skin, and
i want to rip the fat off in shreds until there is nothing -
nothing left but blood stained bones.

i want to change myself
and make who i am
loveable;
i want to be pretty, perfect;
maybe, for you.

i want to feel something,
anything,
besides this loathing
and despair that lurks
inside my chest.

i don't want to suffocate
and i want to tell someone -
anyone -
that i need to be saved. but i can't;
i won't be a burden.

but i am not okay,
and i have been sad
so empty for so long
and no one seems to see past
the artificial light.

that's all i am -
a phony;
an actor wearing the appropriate masks,
a broke soul playing the role
of "happy."

just once, i would like someone to see me
and realize that i am so lost,
desperately searching for "okay"
and see that i want to be
saved.

but that's the dream,
the fantasy - i know,
there's no need for reminders
that heroes don't come for sad, faithless girls
too far gone to make it.

there are not helping hands
for girls who are splintered,
held together by ****** strips of duct tape,
crushed hope,
and steel wires of depression.

so instead, i will hide my pleas
behind bright smiles
and i will hold back my cries
even if they choke me
even if they **** me.

because people,
even those you love,
do not look kindly upon messes
and leave at the first signs of broken
that's what they do.

they whisper about the messes,
gossip right in front of their eyes;
as if these are not people, and cannot hear
or feel the pity
burning through their words.

a mess is just that -
a mess -
and there is no person brave enough for those
unless they are the beautiful, fragile kind,
of which i am not.