I keep it to myself. Making the pretense of anger, as opposed to worry. I pretend to not have a care in the world. I walk around laughing about the ridiculousness of it all.
"How silly!" I'll exclaim.
"How stupid!" I'll interject.
(more)
But my body knows. The weariness is felt deep within my aching bones.
My brain knows. The insomnia has left shadows around my eyes.
My heart knows. Despite what I demand it to do. The blasted thing still has not grown numb to that infernal crack you left.
My cloths know. I cry in my closet. I weep in front of my hanging dresses, blouses and slacks. I don't think they can see me though. I keep the light off.
You...You will never know. You will never know what you have done to me. For my worry is MY secret.
At least - That is what I make believe.
(less)