Behind Closed Doors

In those frequent daily moments where I scurry away quietly

and hide,

I find those sudden "bathroom breaks"

have become necessary habits

(a must for my survival,

an essential part of my healing).

Excuses are vital to gain my private time.

Though, behind closed doors,

not one ear other than my own will ever have to

bear the heaviness of the grief,

and of the mistake,

that has come of my life.

I do not admire swimming in the swamps of self-pity,

however,

I cry for myself once in a while

because I am the only one who truly understands

or cares

just exactly what I've been through.

So, if you find me behind closed doors,

please,

allow me those few minutes to weep.

Do not make me feel ashamed in this tender moment

with my shattered heart,

as I am the only one who feels the pressure of the pain as it

pulses groggily,

and thickly,

through every fiber of my being.

And behind closed doors,

I grip tight my favorite hand towel,

wickedly wanting to rip each thread out,

but only screaming into the bunch of it instead.

I clear my throat. Blot my eyes. Wipe away the smudged mascara.

And head right back out to my audience

as if I hadn't just relived a little rerun from my own personal hell and

completely lost touch with my emotions for a minute there.

The private battles that can sometimes stop us dead in our tracks,

are the ones we keep hidden

behind closed doors.