Loving the Mask is Easy

I want to be loved. Not the version of me
that laughs at the right moments,
that says, "I'm fine,"
before anyone can ask twice. I want someone to love
 the girl behind the smile. The tired me
 who lies awake at 2 am staring at a ceiling
 that knows all my secrets. The crying me
 who buries her face in a pillow
 so nobody hears
 the cracks in her voice. The shaking me
 whose hands tremble
 from battles no one can see,
wars fought inside my own mind. I want someone to know
 that some days 
getting out of bed
 feels like climbing a mountain. That some days 
my chest feels heavy,
 my thoughts feel louder,
and the darkness feels closer. But I hide it. I hide it behind good grades,
forced laughs,
and "I'm just tired." Because what if they see me? What if they see
 the messy,
broken,
exhausted parts of me
and decide they're too much? What if the moment 
I stop pretending,
everyone leaves? So I build walls. I smile.
I nod.
I say I'm okay. And then I go home
 and carry the weight alone. I want love,
but I'm terrified of being known. Because loving the mask is easy. Loving the girl underneath—
the tired,
crying,
hand-shaking girl— that's the part
I'm still afraid to ask for.