They don’t know.
They don’t have the slightest clue.
They don’t know me.
I am not the same girl behind a closed door,
a locked door.
They don’t see past the feeble smile,
the half-hearted laugh.
I tell them I am fine,
I tell myself I am fine,
maybe this is just a phase.
But it is recurring.
It is perennial.
It is depression.