Heartaches in the Shape of Sleeping Bags.

The sun bakes her skin like a scorching basketball court.
Her body is shaky with the silent pain she suffers.
Just climbing into the car is enough to cause collapse.
Nestled against the door, she acts the part of composure.

In the rearview mirror, her pain isn't visible to the chauffeur.
He's oblivious to her salt-stained face, her broken pieces.
"How does it feel? Is it throbbing?" He asked, her leg the subject.
"No," she says, replying solely to tell another truth.

"It doesn't throb." Her hand was over her heart. "It just hurts."