worldsaway

On the outside,
I am sunlight poured into human form.
Warm laughter spilling from my mouth
like I have never known sorrow.
I smile easily,
bright enough to make strangers comfortable,
bright enough that people call me “joyful,”
as if joy is something stitched permanently into my skin.

I know how to make a room softer.
How to laugh at the right moments.
How to hold conversations lightly,
like nothing inside me weighs a thousand pounds.
I know how to sparkle.
How to glow.
How to make people believe
I am untouched by darkness.

But inside,
it is winter.

Not the beautiful kind with fresh snow
and quiet wonder.
The kind that kills things slowly.
The kind where branches crack under pressure
and the sky forgets the existence of the sun.

Inside me lives a storm cloud
that never fully leaves.
It follows me everywhere,
stretching across every thought,
every memory,
every moment that should feel warm.

My mind cannot hold happiness for long.
It does not trust it.
It examines every beautiful thing
like it must surely be temporary,
like joy is only a visitor
and grief is the permanent resident.

The laughter I give away to others
echoes differently inside my own chest.
By the time it reaches me,
it sounds distant. Hollow.
Like hearing a party through the walls
of a room you are trapped inside.

And no one sees it.

No one sees the exhaustion
of carrying two versions of yourself.
The glowing one everyone loves,
and the aching one hidden underneath.
The girl who makes everyone else feel alive,
while quietly wondering
if she herself has stopped living at all.

There is dread buried deep in me,
heavy and ancient.
A longing to rest.
To stop fighting my own mind
every waking second.
To no longer carry the unbearable weight
of pretending I am okay
just because I have learned
how to make sadness look beautiful.

Sometimes I wonder
if anyone would recognize me
without the sunshine.
Without the performance of joy.
Without the carefully crafted warmth
I hand out like a survival tactic.

Because the truth is—
the brightest parts of me
are often just lanterns
I light to survive my own darkness.

And still,
every morning,
I wake up and become sunlight again.

Not because it is easy.
Not because the darkness is gone.
But because somewhere inside me,
beneath the grief and loneliness and fear,
there is still a small, stubborn part
that hopes someone might someday
look beyond the glow
and gently hold
everything hidden underneath.