This is Not Being Brave

standing tall is not being brave

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 husks,
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.



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