Do they know that my eyes are often like faulty drainpipes – they leak.

Do they know that I can’t withstand shouting from my family?

Do they know that I’m sensitive, and vulnerable to critique?

And do they know that beyond my WhatsApp status, there’s more to me?

Do they see behind the smiles, the laughter, the mirth

Or do they dismiss my fears, and deepest anxieties?

Do they see that every night, I question my self-worth

Or do they believe that I’m just some wannabe, not conforming to their proprieties?

Do they know that it’s no simple feat, dealing with the weight of eyes unseen?

Or that hiding myself – masking – is arduous to the extreme

Perhaps they admire the determination for me to reach my dream,

Or scorn that I’m begging the other side of me to be seen?

Do they?

No.

They do not.

They do not realise that there’s daggers behind the syllables they speak,

That I crumble, every time I hear the words of their weaponized vocabulary.

They do not realise that I’ve never been, as they define, ‘happy’.

Because…

I never have.