My tears are shaped like words
When everything goes well
Only on my pages
Is where the thing with feathers fell

No one ever notices
And there’s none I’ll ever tell
That I was ever feeling this
When everything goes well


There’s a part of me that hates the lie
When I am told to be myself;
I’ve felt pieces of me die
To preserve another’s sense of self.

Yet who is there to blame, but I
Who made the choice to hold my tongue
And not to let the thing untie,
Lest I make another come undone?

Better that I rage and sigh
In quiet places no one sees,
And let that part that hates the lie
Find truth in tending others’ needs.