Sittin’ here resting my bones
An’ this loneliness won’t leave me alone
My accent goes incredibly London when I cry. Today I had to ask for help in two situations (not including the usual rigmarole with needing people to open doors for me, etc). It overwhelms me. It hurts me for people to think that my smile is false, that I’m faking my laughter. It isn’t, and I’m not. It’s easy to make tea for people, to exchange pleasantries, to find out how they are. It’s nice, and it makes me smile. Genuinely. Then the lights go down and in the darkness tears find a way to spill. You can’t see them unless they glint in the little light. You can’t smell them. You can’t hear them, if I keep my breathing steady. They are secret tears. Until I have to speak.
Someone said I was brave today.
Brave for admitting where my weaknesses lie.