with my disturbed sight i can see other disturbed
and with my wounded soul i can see other wear
in her worst times
i see the suffering she
desperately tries to cover
there's something about her composure
the cadence of her speech
the shallowness of her voice contrasted
with her tightly-squeezed fists
knuckles white
these little flashes of god-knows-what
flickering behind her eyes
those tiny pauses
i don't know what she's seeing behind that empty stare
i hope i never do
