Cold

I'm cold.

It's not a physical thing, but it touches every inch of my body. If I still believed I had a soul, it would touch that, too.

Everything hurts.

My body, my mind, even my shadow hurts.

I can't explain the ache I feel, or how a shadow can feel pain, but in a way, I think my shadow hurts the most. That's where I hide the deepest pain, the things I can't express aloud.

I'm cold.

Maybe I'm dead.

I don't feel alive. I'm going through the motions, but it's fake. It's fake.

I'm fake.

I don't mean to be, but I can't help it. I put on a mask so I don't worry the people around me. I have to be strong for them, but I'm not strong.

I'm weak.

So I fake it. I don't know how to stop. I always try to be what they expect, because that's what they expect.

I have to fake it. It will hurt them if I don't.

I smile. I laugh. I tell them I'm fine.

I'm not fine.