feigning interest politely,
“So, how are you… really?”
the voice inside
which wanted to scream
and shout and yell
and really tell.
with the healing:
my head is reeling,
from looking at the ceiling,
and focusing on the peeling
trying to ignore the feeling
of the incisions congealing,
the pain they’re concealing.
my lips keep sealing
the cries from stealing
from deep inside
and risking revealing
that are so denied
because of pride.
without a sigh,
and cheerily replied,