Lazy.

Lazy.

Lazy. 

That’s the one that hurts the most.

I’ve been called names. They say them behind my back. They think I can’t hear them. They think that the walls which have ears, don’t also have mouths. Mouths which talk.

I don’t explain why. I don’t make excuses.

I let them say those things. I don’t fight back against it.

I know that it’s not true.

And some nights I cry.

Lots of nights I cry.

Lots of days I cry.

“The dead baby card”.

That broke my heart.

Apparently, I chose that.

I chose this cloud above my head, this wound in my heart and this pit in my stomach.

For a while, I thought I found a home.

I felt secure.

I let my guard down.

The walls, they have mouths. They tell stories.

Believe half of what you see, a quarter of what you hear.

I hear a lot.

I see a lot.

I don’t defend myself.

Because I know that they will always say those things.

They will believe those things.

And I will cry.  

Be happy.

I don’t remember how.

Fake it.

I don’t know how.

Lazy. 

I am called lazy.

They call me lazy. 

And I say nothing.

Because I know better.

But I still cry.