The Bake Sale

Bringing
along
your
flask of
coffee

And
your
frosted
homemade
cake

Doesn’t
make you
any more
likeable

Or any
less
fucking
fake

The Self Pity Party

So many nights I’ve cried,

Feeling dead inside,

Whilst wrestling with my neurosis.

I can’t help but discern,

Despite all your supposed care and concern,

That you haven’t even noticed.

Under Duress

So I’m
coming to
your house
today

As it
seems
I have
no choice

But to endure
three hours
of awkward
pretence

And your
fucking
annoying
voice

If only
I could
just say
no

Then all
of this
would
end

Instead I’ll
turn up
with a
smile

And fake
being
your best
friend

The Struggle

When you see me, you see the finished article.

Washed, dressed, hair in place, make up on and a smile on my face.

But you don’t see what it takes to get there.

You don’t see me trying to muster the strength to open my eyes in the morning.

You don’t see me forcing my weary bones out of bed.

You don’t see me berating myself as I sob in the shower.

You don’t see me looking in the mirror as I question whether or not today is the day.

You don’t see me wracked with indecision on what to wear.

You don’t see me soothing my pain as I twist and pull out my hair.

You don’t see me apply make up in the hope it makes me disappear.

You don’t see me riddled with anxiety as I lurk in the doorway.

You don’t see me breathing deeply before finally pushing open the office door.

When you see me, you see the finished article.

But just because you don’t see the struggle, doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.

Just because you see me smile, it doesn’t mean it’s real.

How I look, is not how I feel.