You've Lost The Starlight In Your Eyes

No one notices, even though my wounds are painfully, stupidly obvious. And it's sad. Not having to practice hiding things from them is probably more upsetting than ever being found out.

They do not have wicked words, they have no words at all.

They do not stare at me or glare at me, they glance at me briefly.

They are my friends, but I am a stranger.

They are full-bodied and complex. I am big hair and a cupid bow mouth.

I am not allowed to be complicated.

My heart feels too small to carry the weight of them all, so I let them go. 

And with the new found emptiness of it, I carefully fold my heart into four like blood stained paper, and put it into the mobile phone spaced pocket of my jacket for safe keeping. I can't imagine anyone getting close enough to me to look inside there and take my heart back out of its hole. I won't even bother contemplating it anymore. I forget about it.

A curled up whisper hits the air. A secret. A weapon they could use against me. It disparates before it can press into the condensation of the cool November window-glass, before it can tint my delicately crafted pretenses. I am safe for now.

Why am I dissapointed?

It is a fifty fifty chance, whether it will be the glass of my window or the sharp angles of my body that will shatter first. My sanity-well, my sanity is already sticking out from the carpet like spilled mirror, glistening against the bedroom lights, shrewd so that it is impossible to put the whole thing back together. But it is ok. I don't mind so much. At least I still know where my sanity is when I wake up each morning. I'd step down from my bed and wince as my toes curl inwards and the soles of my feet split open as each splinter of glass hit my footsteps as I move towards the door. Every morning I am painfully aware of where my sanity is, and guilt and sorrow consumes me like splashing myself awake crouched over the bathroom sink. A hint of toothpaste will make my skin hiss, and I'd be more sensitive to the world than ever. To hurt, to defeated goals and seemingly infinite teenage years. But once I escape from my room, or put a pair of Converse on, I only grow more and more numb, and eventually I manage to go about the day as a dizzying cloud of blonde and air again, there but not really there. I arrive somewhere but am gone already, a conversational 'hello' that sounds like a 'goodbye' in itself. And the next morning, the routine will start all over again.

And no one will notice. No one will say to me 'I think you've lost the starlight in your eyes'.

I know I have. I know. Please know that.

I used to hide my scars. Hide my diaries. Wear a smile all the time. I was painfully bad at it. Purposely bad. I am the girl who yelped when someone touched my wrists. But no questioned are asked. No 'are you ok?'. Nothing. Not having to practice hiding things is probably more painful than ever being found out.

I like having secrets. I just don't like keeping them.

Author's Note

Not really a story, I know. This was just a piece I wrote about a how I believe 'attention seekers' feel when they go through what they go through. The depression. The desperation. God knows, I've felt like that before. Wanting others to realize I am hurting. Have you?