I am not brave.
I just know what people
expect from people who
go through the same
shit as I do.
They expect us to say
we’re fine when they ask if we’re okay –
for they couldn’t handle it otherwise.
They expect us to smile and be all happy
and gay even if we’re rotting
like a 30-day old mango inside.
They won’t be able to look us
in the eye, if they’d know how we’re
slowly crawling deep into ourselves – even
while we’re talking and laughing with them
like everything’s okay with the world.
They’d rather be oblivious to
the fact that we feel like corn husk,
age-old and dried –
ready to dissipate at the mere
whift of an easterly wind coming from
the polar regions of our souls.
So, no, I am not brave.
I am simply adept at fooling the world
and its people who’d rather hear
that you have died than learn and cope
with the idea of you being ready
to slit your wrists at the thought of waking
after hours of not sleeping –
to put on that damn mask again.