And it always came back to that question

  Staring at him with frustrated eyes and disbelief.

  "Why do you do this?"

  And he would raise an eyebrow like it was all some big joke only he laughs at.

  He would point at the golden certificates on the wall and the framed words that are updated obsessively

  Desperately.

  The frustration would only increase and he would look back calmly

  Because he knows it's not a joke.

  Staring at the ceiling on long nights

  He knows with all his heart

  With all his battered exhausted being

  That it was never a joke.

  But he can't quite let people know that too.

  So he raises an eyebrow and points and it all says

  Isn't it obvious?

  And the harsh words and swiped tears would answer

  "Then why aren't you happy?"

  He stares at the golden walls and replies “I am.”

  The door slams on his barely concealed lie

  And he stands there with a strained smile

  Wondering why exactly he feels the need to put it on in an empty room.

  Maybe in another world, he would have been honest.

  He would have stared at the frustrated worry and answered all too honest and genuine

  "If not this then what am I worth?"

  If not the gold he puts on the walls

  And the words that never work but are still there

  If not for the things he can do

  The things he is good at

  If not if not

  What is he worth?

  If he drops the facades

  And the things he is good at but really doesn't want to do

  If he stops hearing the words that prove he is still there in some way yet make him wince with their weight

  If not for all the things he should do

  For all the things he doesn't want to do

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  Who would he be? Who would care about someone who doesn't care about themselves?

  Who would look at his dull eyes dull dreams dull words

  And think that there is something worthy of love?

  How can he look at the mirror

  And leave his bed

  Knowing that he's no longer the only one who knows

  How broken he is?

  If not for the medals he wears

  And the grades he clutches with trembling hands

  And the smiles he draws every day with sharp fingers that don't quite know how to draw what is expected

  If not for all the things that make him normal

  What would he be

  What can he be?

  How can he live with the overwhelming need to be something?

  How does he live with never being something?

  The need to be more than a body wasting away in a dark room.

  The need to live

  To breathe without wondering if the breaths he takes are the right ones

  To do the things people do.

  To be the things people are.

  Without having to try

  So so hard

  All the damn time.

  How does a human

  Be?

  He thinks of the countless nights he spent with his face on the floor.

  Desperately waiting for everything to stop

  Yet meeting the new day with darkness under his eyes.

  He thinks of the papers he wrote

  The suffocating hands of doubt around his heart

  The voice that whispers that this all will fail.

  He thinks and thinks and thinks

  Staring at the paper in his hand

  Not a big change from what they said

  A few numbers don't change much

  Try harder next time

  You are good

  Just a fluke

  Next time

  Try

  Try

  Try.

  Biting his lips to stop his loud sobs, his head bows in defeat and his eyes close so tightly he feels faint.

  How long?

  How long does he have to try for?

  The numbers don't change much

  But without the gold

  Without the gold

  What is he worth?

  Sometimes he wishes to stop.

  Being

  Thinking

  Trying

  Being.

  Sometimes he just wishes everything would stop

  So he can stop seeing how people live.

  How they smile

  Wide

  And laugh

  Loud

  And work for grades

  And gold

  And worth

  Without it all seeming like an act that hides something that isn't quite human

  Isn't quite not.