Beautiful and devout before
"At work, I get called 'cleaner'," you say. Your speech it not quiet, nor proud; you're not sarcastic and, unusually, not resentful; you're certainly not bashful. I can feel my heart breaking, and pray you can't hear it in this room's unearthly muteness. "I can deal with being treated like shit. I get used to it. I have to. But I won't be shouted at for having an opinion." and I suddenly respect you, tens of thousands more than I did before. My hands clench and unclench nervously. I'm standing, balancing my weight evenly on both feet but feeling anything but steady. What can I do? I know you don't ask, but the whole of me instinctively announces protect her. I'm walking towards you, moment's later. Your head's in your hands. You sense me. You look up, but not at me. You mutter a greeting, like I've just walked into the room, except I've been here all along, you just didn't want to see me. I don't say anything. My silence urges your eyes to glance at me. I know my own eyes are an epitome of pain. I feel it to, they say, telling you what I cannot. You say, "It's all right." and I do understand. I rest my head on your shoulder and whisper "It's not fair," begging to someone or something that it's enough.