Faking It
Paranoid
Looking around, I can't believe my eyes. There are so many smiling faces, so many giggling girls and families that seem so perfect. Everyone always talks about how the world is full of shit and hatred, and I believe it; but when you pay attention, there's so much more good.
When you open the paper, all you see is stories of the man that ate his children for dinner; well, what about the mother that made her family 'breakfast for dinner'? Where's her fifteen minutes of fame? We spread so much bad around the world, it's hard to really appreciate the good things in life like we should.
Maybe it's all fake. The smiling faces, the laughter, the hugs; maybe everyone is just pretending, because who wants their dirty laundry displayed in front of the whole word?
Maybe the little girl that snuck a box of candies into the cart while her mother was looking the other way didn't just want a treat; maybe, when they go back home today, she'll be locked up in the basement again without food for a few more days, and that's why she's so thin.
Maybe the man that just kissed his wife has an abusive streak, and she's trying her hardest to seem like she really loves him so that maybe tonight he won't be so violent while raping her. Or maybe she's not his wife at all; maybe his wife is at home taking care of the children, while he's walking through the grocery store kissing his receptionist.
And maybe the girls sitting in the corner of the coffee shop are so happy about snow, not because of snow angels and igloos, but because winter gives them an excuse to wear long sleeves, making it easier to cover up the bruises. Maybe they're just tired of all the questions, and are relieved that they won't have to deal with them until spring.
This happens to me a lot.
Turning the corner, I make my way to the back of the store. I go into the private rest room, so I can lock the door and have the mirror to myself. I drop my bag on the floor; no one needs to see this but me.
As I tug my sweater over my head and shove my jeans down around my ankles, I wonder what people would think if they saw me. Sometimes I get paranoid and wonder if there's hidden cameras around here; if so, what would the people watching do?
Probably not what they should.
With nothing left on but my socks and panties, I tie my hair up and flick on the switch so I can see. Sometimes I wonder if it's really that bad, or if the mirrors here just enhance all flaws. Each and every cut, scar, and bruise adorning my thighs, sides, ribs, chest, arms.... they stand out like a fresh drop of blood in the middle of the snow. My hips are swelling, and so are my wrists. At least the bleeding has stopped.
Rummaging through my bag, I find everything I need. It's a good thing I don't have snoopy friends; I don't know how I'd explain why my bag is more like a med kit than a purse. Imagine the face on a purse snatcher if they got ahold of this? Boy, would they be in for a surprise; expect an expensive phone, get a bottle of disinfectant.
It surprises me how little it stings, now. I've gotten so used to it, it's almost pleasant compared to how the wounds got there in the first place.
Sometimes I wonder why they let me out of the house, even; but I know they know I would never tell. Besides, it's not like I even have anyone to tell. I'm not sure if that makes it worse or better. As a tear rolls down my cheek and I stare into the mirror, at my bent and broken body, and tear streaked face, I think about the people on the other side of that door.
It's times like this that I wonder if life is easier for everyone else, or if they're just better at faking it. It's times like this that I wish I was so good at pretending.
When you open the paper, all you see is stories of the man that ate his children for dinner; well, what about the mother that made her family 'breakfast for dinner'? Where's her fifteen minutes of fame? We spread so much bad around the world, it's hard to really appreciate the good things in life like we should.
Maybe it's all fake. The smiling faces, the laughter, the hugs; maybe everyone is just pretending, because who wants their dirty laundry displayed in front of the whole word?
Maybe the little girl that snuck a box of candies into the cart while her mother was looking the other way didn't just want a treat; maybe, when they go back home today, she'll be locked up in the basement again without food for a few more days, and that's why she's so thin.
Maybe the man that just kissed his wife has an abusive streak, and she's trying her hardest to seem like she really loves him so that maybe tonight he won't be so violent while raping her. Or maybe she's not his wife at all; maybe his wife is at home taking care of the children, while he's walking through the grocery store kissing his receptionist.
And maybe the girls sitting in the corner of the coffee shop are so happy about snow, not because of snow angels and igloos, but because winter gives them an excuse to wear long sleeves, making it easier to cover up the bruises. Maybe they're just tired of all the questions, and are relieved that they won't have to deal with them until spring.
This happens to me a lot.
Turning the corner, I make my way to the back of the store. I go into the private rest room, so I can lock the door and have the mirror to myself. I drop my bag on the floor; no one needs to see this but me.
As I tug my sweater over my head and shove my jeans down around my ankles, I wonder what people would think if they saw me. Sometimes I get paranoid and wonder if there's hidden cameras around here; if so, what would the people watching do?
Probably not what they should.
With nothing left on but my socks and panties, I tie my hair up and flick on the switch so I can see. Sometimes I wonder if it's really that bad, or if the mirrors here just enhance all flaws. Each and every cut, scar, and bruise adorning my thighs, sides, ribs, chest, arms.... they stand out like a fresh drop of blood in the middle of the snow. My hips are swelling, and so are my wrists. At least the bleeding has stopped.
Rummaging through my bag, I find everything I need. It's a good thing I don't have snoopy friends; I don't know how I'd explain why my bag is more like a med kit than a purse. Imagine the face on a purse snatcher if they got ahold of this? Boy, would they be in for a surprise; expect an expensive phone, get a bottle of disinfectant.
It surprises me how little it stings, now. I've gotten so used to it, it's almost pleasant compared to how the wounds got there in the first place.
Sometimes I wonder why they let me out of the house, even; but I know they know I would never tell. Besides, it's not like I even have anyone to tell. I'm not sure if that makes it worse or better. As a tear rolls down my cheek and I stare into the mirror, at my bent and broken body, and tear streaked face, I think about the people on the other side of that door.
It's times like this that I wonder if life is easier for everyone else, or if they're just better at faking it. It's times like this that I wish I was so good at pretending.