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The Poet's Dreams

Behind the Locked Door

Smiles are lies if they don't reach your eyes. So I've heard. Another sign of lying is being unable to meet someone's eyes as you speak. So keep eye contact. Don't blink too much, but don't refrain from blinking entirely.

That would just be weird.

When the lie is questioned, laugh it off. Make it a joke. It hurts, but if you can laugh, they'll believe you.

Every. Damn. Time.

You'll be glad. You're keeping your secret safe and sound, tucked away deep in your mind where no one else can find it. You can make them believe what you want them to believe. What they want to believe. And it isn't difficult, really, if you know how to do it right. It becomes a game.

But still, you're not always happy that they've been fooled. You wonder if you're really that good, or if they just don't care enough to call you out. You wonder if they agree with your dark little secrets. They think you're doing the right thing. You want to tell them the truth, and see what they'd do.

Send you to therapy?

Yell?

Pat your back and take the cake out of sight. Make it easier for you. Confirm that what you fear most is the truth.

How can it not be, anyway?

You look in the mirror and you feel hatred. Disgust. Seeing all these folds of skin is just grotesque. You want to turn to the side and instantly disappear. Then you'll be beautiful, won't you? What's in the mirror is what's there in real life, and there's no disillusionment about it. The fat you see in each photograph didn't just show up. It was already there.

You're not the only liar in this world, and it's frustrating. You ask if you're fat, and they get that look in their eyes. That horrible, horrible look. You know what they're thinking. You know what they're going to say. No one wants to tell someone that they're fat.

That's mean.

But you're not asking because you want them to deny it. You ask because you want to know that you're doing what needs to be done, whether they realize it or not.

Of course, they swear up and down that you're so skinny, so beautiful, and lace each word with incredulity, as if they can't believe you didn't already know.

You're a better liar.

So you smile. You crinkle your eyes just a little bit, and you know how real it looks. They asked if you were okay, once. You just laughed. Why would they think otherwise?

Then you excused yourself. You were tired. Today was busy after all, so you hope they don't mind, but you're going to retire for the night.

Upstairs, you stand alone in the silence, locked away in the bathroom. One light bulb is glowing. The other two have already burned out as you stood on the scale. So long. So long, standing there. Wishing you weren't. Wishing you could just win the battle and forget that the scale even existed.

There's a framed photo of you and your cousin. You step away from your tormenting evidence, and pick it up. She's so thin. So slender. So pretty.

You tear your eyes away, and look in the mirror.

What began as a clear image becomes blurred, and you toss the photo into the tub. It shatters, but you don't care.

You're falling apart. Hungry, tired, shaking, and broken. Curled up on the floor. Sobbing because you don't know why everyone else is so perfect. You're sick of pretending to be okay.

When morning comes, though, you'll still stand up. Dry your eyes. Smile and remember to crinkle your eyes because you know well that if a smile doesn't reach, it's a lie.

Falling apart is best done behind a locked door after all, and you've got a whole world to deal with.

No time for truth.

Just disappear.