Invisible Ink (read between the lines)

I don’t cry in public
I perform functional.
Make my sadness punctual.
Show up, shut up, sound logical.
Pass tests. Mask mess. Smile optional.

My pain’s not loud.
It’s a background app
running nonstop
‘til the system snaps.

But you don’t check Task Manager.
You check my posture.
Check my grade.
I say I’m “fine.”
You don’t press play,
just scroll away.

You see clean skin.
But not the worn-down will
beneath it

or the near-miss mornings
where I nearly didn’t.

I laugh on beat.
But my thoughts lag behind,
trailing tabs in my mind
that I never close.

Always some file corrupted.
Always some line of code—
self-destructed.

I call it “tired.”
You call it “teenage.”
But this isn’t a phase.
It’s a freeze frame.
A loop I can’t leave,
a room with no save game.

My prayers sound like jokes.
“Please let me feel fake joy again.”
Or “at least give me fake pain.”
I miss the drama of despair.
This one’s too plain.

No sobbing. No scars. No scene.
Just waking up and wishing I hadn’t been.

But it’s invisible.
So I still do chores.
Still score and open the door
when someone knocks

even if it’s just a lifelessness delivery box
marked “Handle with Care.”
And no one does.