(Years ago I use to write a little bit of prose and poetry. For myself. I have not done this in a very long time. When people ask me about my liver and I mention hepatitis, I get the look. It really makes me mad.)
The Sting
People make assumptions.
From loose threads
Holes grow bigger.
I dig my fingers into myself,
Bruising.
Holding tightly I scream,
And pound the ground,
"I. Hate. It."
I am sore from the wounds.
The cold stares;
My mental anguish.
I reach and grab air
Wanting nothing more than peace.
I wonder if I came at you
And grabbed your throat
Would you choke?
Cry?
Scream?
Like monsters,
Wet teeth gleaming,
You bite with no words.
Just your looks.
Just those looks.
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I think you should return the look, snarl "9 years old, serious bike accident, tainted blood transfusion. Not that it's your business." Just like that. Don't let them bug you. Who gives a damn what morons think?
ReplyDeleteThose who matter adore you.
WV: tersu -- and short snappy answer