his words they cut me,

and i am raw,
defenseless against his blade.

he puts me with his trinkets,
honors he has collected over the years,
and the award itself not the true intent,

just something to sit behind his back,
as he invites honored guests into the room,
"Be Hold" he says,

he plays the servant while maintaining he is the master,
he fools many with his charade.

i sit placid on his shelf head held high,
with sad eyes, and the scars our many
invisible to see under the layers i put on,

But my skin it is bruised,
but they do not see it,
and maybe they aren't looking
to concerned with the heads that roll.

**These words they matter,
don't they matter,
if only to relieve the unseen.