What do you see when you look on me? Am I a child, quietly weeping under the covers? Am I a swimmer, flailing about, waiting for someone to come rescue me? Or maybe you don't see past my facade of someone always in control, makeup always perfect, never a hair out of place. Could you see the real me, I mean, if you tried? Do you even care?
There are occasions when I find the strength: I peek out from under the covers to see who is there; my head breaks the surface of the water, and gasping I reach my arm out to my savior. But it's no one, nothing, emptiness. . .
Do you even hear my voice? I feel like shouting this to the world, but what echoes back is the cold, hard truth: you just don't care. I don't blame you. I doubt I would care myself. Maybe you're preoccupied with your own life. That's only fair. You shouldn't have to worry about me.
But I'm tired of worrying about myself. I'm too weak to keep fighting to stay afloat. The water's frigid, my lungs ache for air, everything's getting so dark. . .
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