DRESSED

​*DRESSED*

*BY FRANK GURU*

How fortunate, they say, to see me smile,

How charming that I laugh with such delight;

They praise the grace with which I bear my days,

And never ask what keeps me wakeful through the night.

For sorrow, dear reader, is terribly polite;

It would never dream of causing a scene.

It takes its tea with sugar, wears its finest lace,

And bows most graciously whenever it is seen.

I have taught it how to enter drawing rooms,

How to curtsy when my name is called;

How to sit beside me through the evening,

And whisper nothing whilst I smile at all.

I have become quite skilled at being well,

So skilled, in fact, that even I believe it—

I converse, I dance, I offer pleasant company,

Whilst something within me quietly grieves it.

And should you inquire after my constitution,

I shall assure you, as etiquette commands,

That I am quite recovered, quite content, quite happy—

Whilst sorrow trembles softly in my hands.

For what is misery, if dressed with sufficient elegance?

What is despair, if one maintains one's grace?

Perhaps the world requires no healing heart—

Only a pleasant smile upon a sorrowful face.

Yet when the music ceases its gentle persuasion,

When candles surrender their golden light,

And the last of the company takes their leave,

Silence has the audacity to ask me how I am tonight.

And there, without an audience to impress,

I find the truth I so carefully conceal:

I have spent so many years convincing everyone I'm well,

That I scarcely remember what it means to heal.