I told her about
me reading
poetry.
She laughed.
Thought I was
joking.
Looked at
me as if she
did not know
me.
Like I had
always been
unsentitive.
Immune to
sorrow.
I was a
sister who
had become
a stranger
in a moment
of seconds.
The fake smile
had worked.
That is why
I will never
tell her about
my heartaches
and depressing
poems.