by Rachel A. Gold
O well, what difference does it really make,
If in my heart of hearts I feel so lone?
To you and all the world I am the same,
To all I still advance the self-same tone,
The self-same looks and actions; I endure
Your absence bravely, do I not? I've gained
This self-control quite dearly; deep within
Always I feel a seething lake of pain.
But others shall not know; I've told a few,
Not all, but just a little of distress;
I had to tell, I found it easier
To bear this way my aching loneliness;
But I've been thinking: is it fair to you
To tell of things you've done to those outside?
And really, dear, in spite of evidence,
I find I still have self-respect, and pride.
