Unspoken

They tell me to speak, but am I not? They grow frustrated, but I am speaking, aren't I? "Talk to me," they insist, but I am—just not with my lips. My eyes do the talking for me. Why can’t they understand? Why can’t they see? My eyes speak all that I cannot, for aren't the eyes the windows to the soul? A two-way mirror, yet they never seem to notice. Can't they see that?