Number and letters fly about in front of her.

They say something in English,
She knows that much.
But they fly too fast,
Whispering to each other some
Inside joke she'll never be let in on.
They mock her, taunt her
Just like the voices in her head.

Maybe she is crazy,
More likely than not she is.
Voices, voices, voices!

Repeating to her her flaws,
External and in.
And the last remaining strip of sanity inside tells her the voices
Are exaggerating.

That she's good enough, she gets it,
She smart amazing beautiful.
Everything she tells others she knows she is.

But that's a lie too.

The gossiping numbers switch and alternate. Adjust and churn and burn her eyes. Burn her mind.

Or maybe those are just the tears threating to spill.
And if the teacher not two feet away notices she's crying,
He says nothing.
Idle, useless batter all used up.

Her fingers twitch,
Both the ones around the plastic pencil she has jabbed into the numbers.
And the ones on her bag.

She yearns to feel the cool weight of her special pen, to drown in words.
Her earphones, to drown in melodies.
Her blades, to just drown.

But she's in public, so she must be strong.
Be the fierce, happy, intelligent young "lady"
She was taught she must be.
Indecency is a sin.

And somewhere along the way she loses herself.
Manages to hold out until she's in the car, hot summer sun buring her skin.
Sweat forms on her upper lip, mixing with salty tears.
She can't tell which is which.

She lets go in front of her mother, spills as much of her strength as she has left.
But what else should she expect.

"You have a problem. You're going to fail and flunk school," comes the rickety voice.

'You're a failure. A problem. Fail. Fail. Fail. That's all you're good for. Say your final goodbyes and leave. Forever.

We won't miss you,' the voices say.

She thinks she should do just that. Just bleed and leave while tears stain the floor.
But the voices, contradictory, say,

'Attention *****. That's all. That's all,'

So she'll do what she has always done best. The only thing she's good at: act.

Not on a stage; not in front of an audience.

Just a little one woman show ran by her heart and her voices. Alone, she will say  the final line.
Take her final bow.

And there is no curtain call.