I suppose I’m happy.
Like when my friends and I are hanging out,
throwing my head back and covering my mouth
as I shake with laughter
at a joke someone just made.

But then days turn to nights
and my carefree grin turns into an unexplainable sadness,
etched on my face like a tattoo.
And I lay in bed,
thinking about all the things I wish I could say—
all the things I’m too afraid to admit,
even with only pen and paper and mind.

It’s nights like these when I realize:
I am many things.
I am happy and sad,
outgoing and shy,
rambunctious and quiet,

but mostly,
I am just empty.

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