Pretending

I learned at a young age that the world does not want to see your pain. So I hurt just the same, only hidden; behind closed doors, in broom closets, under sheets, in the pages of my guarded journals, and often in the arms of forgotten lovers. I felt everything, all of the weight of the world and of myself, but I put on a face and did not let it show. Because the world is sensitive; it doesn’t want to see all of the pain it inflicts or it may just break. And it’s hard to cry alone, but it’s even harder to cry when the world is broken, too.

Pretending is easier. Pretending is safer.

possible intro to a novel I will never finish

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