My throat is aching and burning;

I'd do anything to hide from the pain.

My stomach is sinking and churning;

I try to act normally in vain.

My head is throbbing.

I want to start sobbing,

But I can't; I can't.

I don't know why,

But my eyes are dry.

Warm, salty comforts do not slide down my face.

Instead the aching grows

At a rapid pace.

I look in the mirror.

I can see myself rubbing my temple,

And you'd think it would be simple

To see that I am ill,

But you are laughing still.


No one else thinks it's funny.