I promise I need help.
But I'll fail to prove it.
My eyes refuse to well up with enough tears.
The corners of my mouth won't bend.
My eyebrows remain unperturbed.
However much I try, this thunderstorm of turmoil inside will never show itself to anyone else.
And while I feed it just as much as the next person who cries, frowns and shouts. I'll never be treated the same.
They won't believe it until they see it.
It's surreal.
We're dead for all eternity and only alive for a moment. This is my life and it's ending one moment at a time.
Because over time as my turmoil grows.
It builds up like thousands of tiny needles digging into me.
Everyday is excruciating
I feel like living taxidermy.
Why must I be the perfect victim to get sympathy.