Can they not see the dried tears that cascade down my cheeks and rest below my eyes, the crystalline preciseness all the patterns leave?
Can they not hear the grotesque scream I'm constantly screaming?
leaving my voice small and hoarse.
Can they not feel the quaking symphony I hold deep inside?
The one that makes a simplistic yet booming sound.
Can they really not tell?
Or am I simply translucent...?

I built a shelter in you.
We waited out the storm.
Then the sun blazed through.
And left my wooden walls scorched.