She cloaked her hate in songs of love, so no one would know how incapable she was to care about anything worth giving a damn about. Always nodding in agreement with those she despised like no one else did, to mock them in a way they would never know. So she said yes to all things she would easily say no to and no to all things she would have said yes to. She approved of all the ideas that were presented to her by so called ‘friends’ so they would never suspect how little regard she had for all the bull shit they were wrapping in passable masks.

She would cry when it was deemed appropriate. She did not have any taste for gasps of shocks that people made when someone did something they thought was not warranted. So she would grieve the death of those she was glad were dead. Pretend to be shocked, when really, nothing was capable of shocking her anymore. Burn red when someone complimented her about her poise or grace, when in truth, she thought all of it was pointless chatter, not even worth noting. She read all those writers so popular, although they did not even seem worth quoting.

One day, she had a burndown, I think they call it a breakdown, but she was not broken, not yet. It did not feel like she was breaking down, it felt like she was burning, with rage, with helplessness, with age and its restlessness. She grabbed her hair with both hands and pushed them back, away from her forehead, away from her eyes, lying as if on her death bed, away from her ties. Only minutes ago she had been shaking her head vigorously from side to side, as if she was possessed, although it may not have struck odd to metal heads. But soon, she is still, deceptively calm, as the insides of her head feel like they are slowly being roasted to be served in some special kind of hell. It is still winter my dear, but she is in sweats, her upper lip trembling in anger, her forehead in ugly knots. But those dreaded fingers are shivering yet, waiting for something devious to unfold. They are bold, oh! They are bold. But not bold enough to tear ridiculous notions old.

So she sits in a corner, gripped with an unending sense of despair. She will soon rise and walk about like nothing happened. Go to work and put in so much effort so no one would know how she did not give a damn. Everything she does seems almost perfect, her way of expressing her hatred towards all things perfect. In all her cool demeanor, she is always burning. She burns with so much fervour inside, like she believes that if she kept at it, she would slowly turn to ash. And every time she is headed for a burndown, she hoped to disappear into dust. But till that does not happen, she pretends to care.