They don’t know me,

they know what they can see.
They don’t see the hours of work,
the way my face falls
when that work is fruitless.
They don’t see the darkened circles
under my eyes,
the fact that I consume more caffeine
than food.
They don't start every morning,
half-asleep,
begging desperately for its end.
They don’t hear the voices,
the constant reminder,
“you’re not good enough.”

They call me detached,
but they don’t actually care,
concerned only with their precious image,
not the real problem.
They call me selfish,
that worrying about my precious GPA
takes time from them,
but those little numbers
carry so much weight.
They call me lazy,
but they don’t know,
my bedroom is a place for work,
not sleep.
They can’t see behind the closed door,
but it’s not as if
they have the capacity.
They aren't awake
in the early hours of morning,
reading, memorizing, crying,
until passing out from exhaustion.

They don’t understand that
conversation is inconvenient,
wasting my valuable time.
They don't see past
my forced smile,
the emptiness in my responses,
as I eat a meal
at a table full of hypocrites.

Our exchanges are meaningless,
hardly skimming the surface,
recycling the same tired questions
every day.
We were once a family,
but now we’re estranged.
Whether that’s my fault or theirs,
there’s no time to be myself,
playing into their loving facade
doesn’t fit into my schedule;
but it's okay,
they wouldn’t like the real me anyways