I scream in the dark at my weakness, with disdain not heard. I seethe at my failure in the daylight, hidden by an impenetrable wall never seen. I shed tears of shame in quiet moments that race to my lips, and only I taste. I breathe in the smoke of despair, sickened by my selfish, filthy smell. I plead heavenward, begging for solace, send a miracle to heal my fallen heart. No heavenly hand carries my pain. No light disperses my sorrow. No voice offers answers. Only a peasant girl interrupts and asks that I teach her how to read. The ancestors have a very funny sense of humor.
