The inside of my body is a universe—
Uniquely, solely, perfectly mine.
My eyes see what is His and Ours;
That is all there is outside.

you can write about love
you can write about hate
but when you write about pain
no one listens.

it's an eerie calm
as the bodies continue to move around you
chatting and socializing
as you stand still in the midst of this darkened room
where purple and blue accents line the tiles
and are reflected on the ceiling.

you may shout and the people nearest you may glance over their shoulders
wondering what the fuss is about
but then they see you and immediately dismiss it.

you no longer want to be dismissed.

you let yourself disappear and finally you can move
your limbs feel light as air and you pass right through the crowd
and the people keep chatting
and the people keep socializing
and no one ever realizes you left
because they hardly noticed you in the first place.

their glasses will clink and their laughter will fill the room
but you will be gone
so that you can express your pain in a place where someone will listen
where someone will understand
and sit by you in the night
while both of you are getting soaked slowly by the damp earth
as you gaze out at a river, or a forest, or a wide-open plain.

this person does not have cotton-filled ears
and isn't laden down by heavy layers of cloth and jewels and metals
and they help you remove the golden shackles from around your neck
so you can speak freely at last.