Even the stoics
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When in pain,
A scream crawled from my belly
Into my throat
And out my lips;
A higher and louder sound than any note voluntarily produced:
And I was ashamed.
They say I am strong
Because they have seen we wince in pain.
They offer help
Because they have seen me weak.
They assure me I was right
Thus condemning my mistake.
They have seen all this,
But one thing they never see—
It is too intimate for their insolent eyes:
Even the stoics among us cry.
The strain of being seen
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