I hide my pain. You can’t see it when you look at me.
If you checked my eyes closely enough, you might see how dead they are behind the sparkle of forced gaiety.
If you checked the soles of my feet within soft buttery leather, you’d see peeling skin, red-raw and painful. An escape and a metaphor all in one.
You’d see insomniac bruises beneath pressed powder, lonely hours coated in champagne bubbles. A song and dance celebrating solitary independence masking the soul-searing screams of a need to be held and comforted by strong arms and soft words.
To show it means to face judgement; or worse: pity.
So hide it.
Dance for the monkeys, dance.