Martyr

Gray swirls around me as I begin to sink.
Blackness surrounds me, colorless like ink.
I can see no light, I feel no hope.
All this pain, I’m not sure how to cope.

I brought myself here, got lost in despair.
People see it, too, and many are aware.
But some aren’t sure how they can assist,
And many times I just start to resist.

Part of my mind is grateful for their work,
Sometimes in brief assent I offer a smirk,
But inside I continue to slowly burn,
For some kind of numb or peace, I yearn.

It eventually comes, and emotions are gone.
The numbness then felt keeping me withdrawn.
If I do talk, my tone sounds too lifeless,
Causing my loved ones—even helpers—distress.

A part of me realizes that this could be wrong,
They deserve better and I should be strong.
I should hold back, so I don’t hurt them as well.
This is my battle, my own personal hell.

Maybe someday, I will learn to win this fight,
To keep others from sensing my inner plight.
Maybe, then, though I suffer alone,
From behind a mask my pain won’t be shown.