Unspoken

My friend, who folds in on herself,

does not say, ‘I am hurting too deep 

for words; I am protecting myself

with a mask and a cloak; I am hiding

in a deep cave of silence, leaving only 

my replica outside (acting and smiling).’

She doesn’t tell me: ‘I’m about to shatter.

If you touch me even lightly, even if 

your voice is soft with sympathy, that

will be more than I can bear. Please

pretend that I am normal. Pretend

that you notice nothing. Smile!’

One by one, I see processions of her

acting on a stage. Her lines are always

word-perfect. (Not, of course, her own.)

But I can barely hear them. They fail

in the clamour of the shrieks that she

is not uttering, which I hear too loud.