Painting on a Smile

If I
let the red
drip from my
veins and told
you I was okay,
you'd believe it.

I'm the best fucking
liar on the planet,
about pain.

I just paint a daily
smile onto my lips
and act like I
can handle it.

I act like I'm
not breaking apart
on the inside and
everyone believes
me.

There's a part of
me that wants
to scream at them
for not knowing,
for not
understanding,
the agony.

The rest of me
tells me to stay
hidden, because
when I exhale all
this hurt,
they'll take it in.

They'll blame
themselves and I
just couldn't
handle that.

So, I'll go home
and go straight
to my room without
even a hello. I'll
cry. I'll cry so
fucking hard my mascara
will drip drip drip
down my face.

It makes me look as
stained as I feel.
Then, I'll just
wipe all the tears
away and paint my
smile back on.

I can't let anyone
know. I can't let
anyone see,

this agony inside
of me. This agony
that's killing me,
slowly.

I wish I could
honestly tell
you it wasn't
your fault.

I wish I could
just suck it up
and be less of
an over-sensitive
bitch. I can't.

I've tried. I've
tried so hard and
given up. So,
I'll just be this
fake little whore
I'm used to being.

I'll hide behind
curtains of cosmetics
and you'll never
know.

You'll never know
what it's like to not
be able to do
anything right. All
I do is fuck
everything up and
take things way too
personally.

Then, once I can't
contain the hurt
anymore, I fucking
explode and I feel
like soon, it's
coming.

This is only the
calm before the
storm.

One day, I'm just going
to pick up the blade
and not tell myself
to stop.

Or, maybe I'll just
let myself get as
skinny as I want.
I want to be nothing
more than a skeleton,

because that's the
way I constantly feel.
I walk around, broken
into tiny pieces that
are too small to see,
so I look complete.

This smile I've
painted on has become
more and more permanent.
I doubt I could even
make a real one.

I doubt I could
make a real
anything. I'm
just a fucking
blond, barbie-doll.
The kid who used to
play with me tossed
me in the trash,

like the garbage I
am. I feel so
fake. I don't know
who I am anymore.

So, I'll put a
band-aid over my
boo-boo so everyone
doesn't think it's
a big deal.

It may have been a
small cut, but it
was deep. It went
straight to my heart.

I wish I could
honestly tell
you it wasn't
your fault.

The paint on my
lips is wearing
thin, and I hope
it isn't too soon
that you see through
my masquerade.

I don't want to
hurt you. I'd
rather hurt myself
a thousand times.
I just don't know
how much longer
I can hold on.

This could be
the end for
me.

I'm sorry.