If this isn’t hell, what is?
People look at me and all they see is the plastered smile. All they see is the fact my stomach protrudes and my thighs touch. All they see is my hair that never does what I ask it to do. All they see is the girl covered in makeup, and sometimes the girl who was “too lazy” to look presentable. All they see is the girl who does her hardest at her job and cries when she’s overwhelmed. All they see is this girl who pretends to be strong. All they see is what’s on the outside.
They don’t see the pain behind the tears. They don’t see the frown lines, hidden by her smile. They don’t see the insecurities. They don’t see how sometimes she has too much on her mind to cover the ugliness that’s her face. They don’t see the demons she fights, not only in her dreams, but everyday, that causes her dark circles under her eyes. They don’t see how she binges every day on food to fill up what’s empty inside. They don’t see the pain that wraps around every part of her life and squeezes, until she can’t breathe anymore. The horror that twists the view she has of herself; until she can’t even look at herself in the mirror. They don’t see how weak she really is inside.
I’m gasping out for air.
My arms are flailing.
Hoping to grasp onto something.
But there’s nothing.
And I just have to wake up and do it again.
I’m not afraid of dying. I’m afraid of what’s after. If this isn’t hell, what is?