How Are You?

I'm fine, I really am—I still get up, I brush my hair, I text back when I can, I do the things that show I care. I laugh when someone jokes, even if it doesn't reach my chest, I perform the role of "doing well" and pass the daily test. I eat enough, sleep enough, talk enough to not raise any concern, I've mastered all the motions, all the boxes that I need to turn. Sometimes I stare at ceilings long after the lights go out, Wondering how I got so good at hiding what I'm really about. I don't cry every day now, just when no one's around to see, And that's progress, right? That's what recovery's supposed to be? I've learned to carry emptiness like it's a normal weight, Pretending that I want to be here, that I'm not just running late. So yeah, I'm fine—I say it like I mean it, like it's true, Because fine is just a word for "I don't want to burden you." I'm functioning, surviving, going through the daily grind, And if you ask me how I am, I'll smile and say I'm fine.