I’m hard to talk to,
I know.
You say I don’t talk
much at all
I know. In my head
I practice
conversations that
come so easy to you.
The things I should have
said replay
in my head.
You ask why,

and maybe if you
knew that my brain
is a non stop
machine of worry
of over thinking
of paranoia
of everything you
would never understand.
When I open my
mouth I choke,
silence is smooth
upon my tongue.
You ask why I am so
quiet and shy.
I’ve become muted
by this disease, my lips
have been stitched shut.
It is a fire in my
throat when a simple word is
uttered from
an undisciplined mouth.
Standard set on myself.
Lunch time,
don’t ask why im not eating.
Water can fill the hunger that
screams in my stomach.
I wont let you see me
consume those calories.
I dream of a day
when I can walk alone
without worrying of
how my legs look in these jeans
how my arms look bare
in the lime light.
The disease has
grown so consuming
like a tumor destructing my brain.
As my English
teacher goes down
the list for attendance,
my legs shake
and I swallow hard.
Clear my throat
raise my hand, no voice.
No voice to
add into this classroom.
She doesn’t look up
marks me absent.
I am here, you
can’t hear my voice
it is quiet and weak
but I am here.
Confrontation.
My stomach drops.
Blushing cheeks
this shaky voice trembles
as I stumble through
answering the
questions I am asked.
Robot tone, no one hears.
So I disappear.
They tell me
to speak up as if it was
that easy to just walk
past the pain when it is
the only true friend
that calls my name these days.
I am here
I am here
sitting behind
my silence.