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.