Confessions have choked out

on the news, in papers, in words.

Voices thrash and burn

blood curdling, throats raw, screaming, “Me Too!”

Silence in abyss.

Back at home walls cave in

as candlelight flickers — trying to heal.

Ripped open in her

own house,

flesh stinging,

heart broken,

mind numbed.

She hears nothing —

alone in her thoughts

afraid of window glass,

mirrors, and her

own reflection.

Who am I?

Loneliness in bodies.

Masked faces in every direction

on the streets of her city —

a monotonous march to the same beat,

garments cut from the same cloth.

Alone alone alone

in a world with no privacy

or room of one’s own —

her sores blister

the shame she feels,

invisible.

She is invisible.

I am invisible.

Is there something else?

Black circles under eyes

melt her youth away —

crimson bottle she

uncorks behind closed doors

as candlelight flickers, trying to heal.

But her heart, broken,

mind, numbed.