It's not easy being sick.

Not the kind of sick you can see. 

Not the kind of sick that people understand. 

The dark, twisted, secret kind of sick 

That eats away at you, 

That whispers your insecurities in your ear, 

Tells you that you're worthless. 

The kind of sick that people deny the existence of,

asking "have you ever tried 

being happy?"

So you hide.

You paint on a smile in the mirror in the morning,

And you don't take it off again,

Hoping that soon you too will believe it, 

Just like everyone else.