Some days,
I'm content
that my head remains
a black box.
Instead I wish
my chest
was made
out of glass—
then, you'd
so clearly
be able to see,
in my heart,
how I'm always
trying to do
my best.
No matter
what else;
even when
it might be killing me;
even when I smile
and insist
"this is fine,"
you would see
that I believe it,
even though you
know I'm
lying.
