Tears smudge the paper, filled with untidy, spidery cursive handwriting. Each splat represents another heartache, another stab of pain, another unheard cry. Yes, go ahead. Forget about me. Don't worry, I'll be just fine. As always. Always.

Tell-tale stinging in my eyes. Exhaustion built up, too much hidden. Whatever it is, there is always a limit. Days of trial, of getting up on in the morning and arranging a smile, ready on my lips.

The pen has given up on me. Who's next?

Like tying a tie, getting up early to make sure it's perfect. To make sure there are no mistakes. The stinging gradually turns into pinpricks of water.

Battling, daily, wekly, monthly. How much longer? How much longer? The gates have turned rusty. They were once strong and trusty, made of fine steel and beaten copper. They did their job. But, now, it is old, and battered. I have no oil left. None. Nada. Zilch. Zero. It is hard to keep them shut. To lock it down. Very hard.

Oh, it's so easy to open your mouth and tell people, you'll be fine. But, you mean the exact opposite. You want them to stop and comfort you. Really see you. But you don't dare. I don't dare. I can't. Ever.

The pinpricks slowly turn into little trickles. Each silver stream edges its way down, like ice melting into water. Each line, like blood, crawling down my arms, laughing. I bow my head, allowing the disused gates to open a little more, but, still, only partially open. I cannot lose control over myself. I must not.

Why is it so hard for me to trust? Why? Why is it so easy for some people to find a person's shoulder to cry on? Some things just aren't meant to be.

I look around the room, my fixed smile forgotten, a half-tied knot. Newspapers little the floor, thrown haphazardly across the hard wooden surface. Some attempts had been made to clear the table, but the efforts had all gone to waste. It is swamped with paper. Stacks of paper. A mug balances precariously on my very own version of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. What little space is left is take up by clean socks and pens. A visitor must tread cautiously along the newspaper-and-miscellaneous-items lined path to reach my hideously made bed. I don't care.

They say that life is planned for you. They say that you must be morally upright. They say, they say. I'm tired of having to listen to them. Tired. They preach that there is a higher power that believes all are equal. I don't believe them. I used to. Not anymore.

The trickles turn slowly, as though reluctant to, into streams. I am careful to keep silent. Struggling to maintain my composure, I turn once again to the mirror, eyeing myself with red-rimmed eyes, like a vain lady checking for smudges in her make-up. Shrugging, I run trembling fingers through my hair. Tears run freely down my cheeks. Splat. Onto my shirt. Splat. Landing on the floor. Splat. Forming small puddles around my feet.

Suddenly, I smell the faint aroma of perfume. Hastily, I wipe away the signs of my sadness with the back of my hand.

Removing evidence. Covering up my sorrow. Is that all I am capable of?

I arrange my face into a ready smile, retrieving it from the dregs of my memory.

I remember, once, there used to be a time when there were no false pretenses...

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