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.