Poem

There are things that we do not talk about.
We are very good at smiling our smiles
And whistling our tunes and pretending
That there is no big black mixture of hurt and genetics
Clouding in the corner of the room.

We are too old now to ask someone to check under the bed
And sweep out the monsters lurking there
So their residence is permanent and they grow fat on fear,
Creeping out in the darkness to sleep beside us.

When we try to whisper them to others
They tell us about silver linings and smiling umbrellas
And we smile again until our cheeks ache
And our muscles are fixed, forcing the smile.

There are things that we do not talk about
And so they claw their way into our hearts, laughing,
And we marvel at others ability
Not to notice that we are bleeding.