Beneath The Mask She Wears

By Baishnabi Rajnandini Bora

The weight of never being enough coils around my throat like a serpent,

its grip tightening with every expectation I fail to meet,

every whispered comparison, every unspoken disappointment

that lingers in the air like an unshed storm.

The fear of never truly succeeding, of being just another forgotten face

in this relentless race of numbers and achievements,

strangles me until I can no longer tell

if I am breathing or merely existing.

The sleepless nights stretch endlessly,

my pillow damp with tears that remains unseen.

The person beside me sleeps soundly, unaware of the silent battles

that rage within the depths of my mind,

unaware that the weight of the world

settles on my chest like a burden too heavy to bear alone.

In a world overflowing with voices—friends, family, laughter—

why is it that I still feel like a solitary figure

drowning in a sea of indifference?

“You don’t look sad.”

“Your life is so easy, what could possibly be wrong?”

“You never cry, you always seem so carefree.”

But they do not see the way my hands tremble in the dark,

they do not hear the silent screams that echo within my skull,

nor do they understand that a smile

can be the most beautifully crafted disguise.

I have spent years mastering the art of pretending,

of laughing on cue, of nodding when expected,

of swallowing my pain whole until it turns to poison inside me.

Every forced smile tells a story no one bothers to read,

a carefully constructed lie that shields the world

from the chaos within me.

But when the lights go out and the world falls silent,

the darkness presses against me,

suffocating, consuming, relentless.

Every breath feels like a battle,

every heartbeat a reminder that I am still here,

still trapped beneath the weight of their words,

their taunts, their expectations that have long since

turned into shackles around my soul.

The flower that once yearned to bloom

now shrinks away from the sun,

afraid of the hands that claim to nurture

but only serve to wound.

I have been told I can do better, that I am capable,

but when will they understand

that I have given all that I have,

that my heart is tired, that my spirit is fraying

at the seams they cannot see?

This soul longs for a world where pressure does not suffocate,

where love does not come with conditions,

where I am not measured by my ability to endure pain in silence.

I have been a pillar, unwavering and strong,

for everyone who needed me,

but who has ever held me up when I felt myself breaking?

Just because I laugh,

just because I keep moving forward,

just because I pretend the weight does not crush me—

does not mean it doesn’t.

It does.

And it is killing me,

slowly,

painfully,

with every second that I am forced to carry this alone.

By Baishnabi Rajnandini Bora