"I love how you're so happy!" they say.
"You have turned into such a beautiful & happy woman", my grandfather beams.
Happy?
Can they not see?
Can they not spot the tear streaks on my cheeks?
Do they not notice how my smile falters?
Do they not see how my eyes stare back at them, unfeeling?
Do they not see the scars painting my wrists, unconcealed?
Happy?
Can they not feel my dispair? My anguish? My self hatred radiating off my skin?
Can they not hear me screaming, praying, begging for someone to release me from my inner prison?
Happy?
Where do they look when they glance at me?
Look closley, my darlings, & you will truely see, I do not know Happiness.
Just Misery.