When eyes smile, it hides some parts of misery. While some others still seen as open wounds.
I capture myself smiling on the way back home. Butterflies follow my steps. My heart feels so full. My eyes shine at its brightest. World treats me so kind today. Life is suddenly worth-living again.
“Thank you! See you another day!” Someone who drove me home waves a goodbye. One last smile, then I close the door. I take off my shoes, walk quickly to my room. I close the door, again. One last door I have to close before opening a row of doors of my thoughts and hearts that have been locked all day. My knees suddenly get weaker. I fell right behind my door.
In this safe space, the hidden thorns start to grow, fulfill the atmosphere. Thorns those can’t be caught by eyes. But if it weren’t, then what would pierce my heart this deeply? What would slit my throat this greatly?
My mind screams as my voice cord freezes. Loudly yet doubtfully. I cannot tell what goes wrong, so stabbing myself in loneliness is the only way for me to feel things. I wrap myself in melancholy. Letting myself drown in tears in case she needs it. But tears doesn’t seem like to help. It shrinks back from falling down, refuses to help me expressing my feeling. My heart is weighed down by tons of unknown.
I stare miserably at nothing. I was so happy 5 minutes ago. How could it all change in a split second? Reminiscence I just had replays laughter that was recorded in the back of my mind, recalls smile and blush that were marked in the front door of my heart.
But it all feels like a lie. Maybe I am mistaken describing what I truly feel throughout the day. What if who followed me all the way home were a swarm of moths instead of butterflies? What if the shine in my eyes simply blurred the sorrow it held? What if world actually tricks me to play this dull game?
Some grief grows untold, without permit. It stains delight I try to cherish. It sticks the knife to my hand when all I want to hold is just someone’s warm hand. Tighter two hands tied, deeper the hole pierced. Two hands bleeding. The emptiness of my heart fails to translate the beat of others’ hearts when we hug.
Seeing my wide smile may not be a rare thing to do. But for those who get to see it, do they also see the bruises all over my hands? With my own fingers be the culprit by pinching it as strong as I can to distract me from other pain.
Scratches added under my long sleeves and pants. If I can’t define which part of my heart is wounded, then let me mark the scars in my body so I can tell which part is hurt. Then I will stroke it with the leftover warm my hand has among the blood.
I may say I’m fine, until I find me letting myself starve to death at night because I have not eaten for hours — which I barely do before. I may say I’m fine but I lose my appetite and my weight so quickly. Yet slowly turning into someone I did not use to know.
Catching my wide smile may not be a hard thing to do. Because whenever I find a sore, I will look away to the side nobody can see. Then put back my face to the previous place with the same common smile people have known.
Or maybe run to the toilet of the running train, at the back of the carriage. Open the small window, louder the voice of friction to the rail. Then I scream as loud as I can. Hoping the unspoken will be represented by loud and long scream. As the train leaves the trees in sideways, may my blood also left behind in those towns I don’t know.
School library, 2024
