MasksMasks.A different face for every place.Hiding Disguising.Plastic smile Hollow laugh.But insideSecretsDarkness,Held in by chains About to snap.Locked away Buried underA glass floor About to crack.Smile pretty.
WordsJumbled voicesWhispered thoughts within my mindBitter angry pointed screamsSobbing heavingHollow inside my chestTired lonely desperate graspTeased me fake trustOffered lies and promisesTempting hoping wanting wordsInside brokenUnfixed garbage left aloneSilent nothing vanished self
What They Don't Tell YouWhat they don't tell you about death is the phone call. They don't tell you that you can't tell the difference between a normal ring and one that brings bad news, that there's no warning and no time to get your bearings.It's a couple days after Christmas, and I'm on vacation in Williamsburg, Virginia with my family exploring the Jamestown settlement and the recreations of The Mayflower. My best friend hasn't returned my calls for the last two days, but finally the phone rings. So I pick it up, expecting a conversation about Christmas presents or schoolyard gossip. Instead, the voice on the other line asks to speak to one of my parents. I hand the phone to my mother and watch her facial expression change: her eyebrows come together, her forehead crinkles, the corners of her mouth turn down. Her voice becomes low, hushed, and urgent.Finally, she hangs up and sits down next to me on the bed. Then she tells me, carefully, as if divulging a secret. My classmate of nine years died in a fre