She wears headphones.
Y’know, the bulky kind.
Those that hide the music inside.
Outsiders don’t even hear.
She walks,
They ignore,
Harmony, right?

If this had a name…
This… Would be…
Isolatry syndrome.
It’s not a word, right?

Isolatry syndrome, watch and

She walks.
Behind or ahead.
Her “friends” surround.
A crowd.
Of those who love her,

The names, the
scribbles on the page and
the bathroom walls,
the rumours and
gossip, it’s pretty
to begin with.
But it escalates and
evolves like
fire and mammals,
plants, trees, creatures,
technology, man.
Up until the point that
everybody knows but
it’s all hush-hush, man.
It’s not like she knows,

She’s just like the others.
Goes to class.
Gets the grades she needs.
Sits with them.
Works with them.
Still, she wears her headphones.
It’s all good,

“Hey, are you listening
to me?”
Teacher shouts – not
happy. She doesn’t
look up.
They whisper
about her, speaking
ill of her name.
She doesn’t move to
acknowledge the shouts or
the whispers that
are thrown her way because
silence is golden, right?

He pulls her headphones off of her head.
No sound.