I glide through the crowd
Blood rushes to my face
My hands stick with sweat
My lips open and close in prayer
But I am silent.

I stare at a wall
The carpet, a painting, a book,
But my mind will not focus.
Anything to hide the panic.
To hide the fear.

Tears are now a threat.
My panic wants to escape
But I am in public
I am being watched, observed under a microscope, scrutinised.
I must not cry.

It is as though I am
A foreigner in this world.
I want my home, locked doors,
But I do not want solitude.
I wish I were brave.

Writing is safer,
Somehow,
Because my pen cannot
Stutter like my lips do and
Words will be
Trapped in throats,
Not fingertips.
Talking to you is rather difficult
And probably an art form.
But across these lined pages,
I can say everything I never have:
I love you.