Oh, the world would be such a kindly world if all men's hearts lay bare!
We live and share the living lie, we are doing very well,
While they eat our hearts as the years go by, do the things we dare not tell.
We bow us down to a dusty shrine, or a temple in the East,
Or we stand and drink to the world-old creed, with the coffins at the feast;
We fight it down, and we live it down, or we bear it bravely well,
But the best men die of a broken heart for the things they cannot tell.
My skin prickles with goosebumps. For the first time ever, I find myself enjoying reading poetry. The words on the page come alive, pulling out my innermost thoughts and feelings, laying them bare. It’s powerful. I read through it again andagain, underlining and starring the most relatable phrases, the ones that jump out at me most.
We live and share the living lie, we are doing very well…
This.It encompasses the way I feel, walking through life on a tight-rope, a false smile painted on my lips, playing the part I’m expected to play. Forcing myself to comply with the expectations thrust upon my shoulders, too heavy for anyone to bear. Some days, I think it’d be easier to just… not. But then I do. I get up again, face the day, and keep pushing forward.
Because I know one day things will be brighter for me. One day, I will look forward to waking up in the morning. Or at least I hope that’s the truth.
The bell rings, snapping me back. I look up to find Sal still stuck with her phone in her hands. Not a single thing written on the page in front of her. She looks agitated, her leg bouncing restlessly under the desk, phone still clenched tight in her grip, fingers white.
“Hey—you okay?” I keep my voice low, not wanting to draw attention to us.
“I’m fine. Just Jace… being Jace.” She rolls her eyes nonchalantly, slipping her mask into place. I see right through it. I know her too well, but I leave it be. She’ll tell me more when she’s ready.
I pull her into a hug, giving her a tight squeeze. “Okay, well, I’m here if you need to vent.”
She gives me a small smile before heading off to her next class, leaving me alone.
Mr. Hayes clears his throat from the front of the room. When I turn in his direction, his dark, moody eyes lock onto mine. “What’d you think of the poem?”
“It was… heavy.” I say, exhaling long and slow. Not sure how much to give him, how honest to be about the way it made me feel.
“Mmm…” he nods thoughtfully, “I agree. I thought you might find solace in the stanzas. Not everyone can relate, but those who do often carry the same self-awareness in their eyes.” His gaze lingers. “As you do.”
Something shifts in my chest.
“And you?” I ask timidly, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes,” he says, voice softer now. “I relate. It’s a favorite of mine for a reason.” A hint of a smile plays on his lips, that damn dimple appearing in his cheek again. Hekillsme.
We stand there in silence for what feels like minutes, but is likely much less.
“By the way, I showed your drawing to my friend Evelyn. The one who owns the gallery.”
My stomach flips.
“She was impressed, as I knew she’d be.”
My cheeks heat at the praise, and I just know I’m blushing wildly.
“She said she’d love to meet you. She has a gallery event this weekend. Saturday evening. It’s eighteen and up.” He pauses, watching me closely.
Is this a roundabout way of asking my age? I try not to read too much into it, but my mind loves to set itself up for failure.
“I’m eighteen. Almost nineteen.” My chin lifts automatically, and I internally cringe. I’m sure he doesn’t even care.
