Unseen Hands

There's a time to laughter and a time to mourn, But my clock seems frozen between the two. I stand in crowded rooms, drowning in plain sight, Surrounded by eyes that look but never see. A thousand different masks I've worn for them. The jester, the sage, the shoulder to lean on. They collect these versions like tarnished coins, Each one less authentic than the last. "How are you?" they ask with practiced smiles, Words floating like empty vessels on still water. The script demands I answer, "I am fine," Though beneath my skin, storms rage unchecked. Not one has noticed how my hands have trembled, How my voice has cracked under invisible weight. They marvel at my strength, my resilience, Never questioning what price I've paid. I've held them through their darkest nights, Built bridges across their impossible chasms. Yet when I reach across the void that swallows me, My fingers grasp only cold and empty air. Would it break their perfect image of me To know I'm falling, piece by crumbling piece? Just once, I long to hear those simpl words: "Let me help you carry what you cannot bear." But the versions of me they've come to need Cannot afford the luxury of breaking down. So I stand alone at the edge.