It’s a lie. I’m not fine.
There are bruises on my skin and fractures in my bones. Blood seeping out of cuts and slices and through my clothes to where they can see and worry and fret. Scars and wounds and injuries so common it’s become a concern, but made so ephemeral that there is no proof. Real enough to raise suspicion but transient enough to never convince.
But they don’t need it to. Their eyes are sharp and their gullibility non-existent, they never buy your excuses. You’ve never been clumsy since you grew into your height and you are nowhere near fragile.
But what they say isn’t true. There’s no abuse, no domestic violence. No breached trust. There’s nobody hurting me when they shouldn’t. The problem with saying that is that what they hear is “I deserve it”, not “don’t worry, there’s nothing to worry about”.
But that’s also a lie. There are a lot of things to worry about. There are a lot of people hurting me.
Here’s a truth; I’m not fine.
The reasons that they think are never the right ones, but I’m not fine.
I haven’t been fine in a while.
Not since I stepped out on the streets to spare others pain by taking it onto myself. Not since I started throwing away my own safety to save others more deserving of safety, more deserving of peace.
More deserving of life.
I am not fine.
But that is fine in itself.