The Actress

I put myself in order
before leaving the house this morning,
the pieces of a puzzle to make my exterior look acceptable
while my insides bleed.

I strive to deceive the world,
to not let them see
the real picture that lies inside of me,
the rivers of misery I keep tucked back behind my dress.

I have this way of acting you see,
so that the untrained eye can’t tell
the real from the false
the pain from the happiness.

Hypocrite! Might you say
but the right word would be merciful!
Because what is hidden away is too gruesome to stand,
to sad a scene to not feel melancholy.

Therefore I put on this fantastic facade and walk around
with my head held high, my chest already accustomed
to the intense pain of my broken heart
a beautiful strong woman moving forth, powerful.

And a small sigh, a short sharp breath,
the occasional tear and a light brush
of my hand across my chest goes unseen,
part of the character some may say.

But no one perceives the melancholic
stumble now and then and the sadness behind my eyes,
the lack of luster in my smile
or the sporadic tremor on my hands.

They just see, the actress, the talent,
the demonstration of deception of a dishonest deceiver,
they do not see the suffering of a person
that is slowly dying inside.


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