My Mask

Every morning is just another struggle to get up.
Not just because I stayed up most of the night trying to distract myself
(but catching myself thinking anyway),
but because I simply can't find a reason to get up.
There's nothing worth getting up for.

When I finally make it out the door, I grab three things:
my bookbag, my coat, and my mask.
No, not make up.
I already tried my hardest to make myself [moderately] pretty.
No, this is the face I put on each and every day to fool the world;
my mask of happiness.
Sometimes,
when my tears threaten to ruin it,
I have to make a quick dash to the bathroom,
but it's mostly in working order.
The smile sometimes fails
and the laugh won't always start,
but no one looks that close anyway.
It's had a lot of miles on it,
and it still fools everyone.

You see,
hiding your pain is better than having to explain what's wrong
-when you can't understand it yourself-
or convince people you're okay
-when it's so obvious you're not.
It's a face of lies,
but it's easier than the ugly truth.

If you look at me you'll see a joyful girl,
someone flirty and outgoing.
She seems confident in herself, bubbly,
happy with her life.
But she's nothing like the girl she conceals,
the one with the frail heart,
the one screaming and pounding on the walls to escape.
If you look deep in my eyes you might catch a glimpse of her,
a fading shadow.
But you won't ever catch me with my mask off.
Not unless you sneak into my room late at night,
when I've thrown it off yet again and let it all out.
Let the truth show.

Sure, I laugh all day long.
But at night I cry myself to sleep.