You Can't Hear the Ghost Mimes Cry

Inside are excruciating electric shocks, coming on and off. Hundreds of knives flying through my chest and the palm of my hands.

But I don't cry.

I hold it in for hours, hoping the feeling will simply drift away watching a couple episodes of "Friends." But as much as the comic relief made me laugh, it wasn't enough to mask the pain.

I punch my knuckles into the palm of my hand and rub it, hoping my whole body would go numb as I restrain my internal hell.

There is an infinitely tall glass wall, indestructable and never-ending from left to right, that seperates me from the rest of the world.

I should be happy for them and hope they have fun with their peers on the other side of the glass. I shouldn't burden them for not.

It's a ghostly feeling.

I can't touch them. I become a transparent spirit, falling right through their bodies without effect.

Perhaps I'm blind because I can only see their dark silhoeuette as they speak to me in their sweet friendly voices.

Three in the morning and I can't sleep. I should close my eyes and pretend my bed is a bunch of soft marshmellows of Cloud Nine.

I cry.

But no one is around to see or hear me because you can't hear the ghost mimes cry.