I Want To Be In Fiction

The joining of hands around the table
And talks that accompany it
Are usually a sign of connection
With those around you.

Fiction illustrates joyous faces
With laughter bursting from lungs
As pleasantries and conversation are held
Over mounded dishes of scrumptiousness.

My reality is one where I don’t fit
Into a paradise of their design,
And watch from behind a mask cobbled together
Using pain and hopelessness
Like paper and glue.

I never know if my true desires
Long for someone to appear and rip it to shreds,
Or to continue seeing the smiling face
Of my fragile shell.

Either way,
I sit here now as they prattle about their days,
Internally writhing in misery
And heartbreakingly forcing normalcy.

Today is another day
Where I ponder the unending questions,
What if I never spoke again?
Would they even notice?

Or would they leave me to my suffering
Where my mind slowly deteriorates
And gives up
That last smidgeon of hope.

My body sympathizing with the agony,
Bringing about the phantom tang
Of salt and iron,
To show the wounds earned
With the battles of my mind.

All this passes in the blink of an eye,
As I sit doll-like, smile still on my face,
And stare emptily at those around me
Who only recognize the stranger that is my mask.

And I sit there until the end, wondering,
If this is to be my sorry state in life
Where my reality is not nearly as pretty
As the fiction others reside in.