People will pull at your hair and grab at your skin,
Using any trouble from their past as an excuse.
A forest of nettles and thorns screaming their injustice at you,
Claiming that they’ve been pricked and punctured, too.
People will entice you closer with their spectacular displays of colour,
Bouquets of warmth and support luring your trust.
They will promise of helping you find that last puzzle piece,
Whilst silently changing the picture.
People will subtly critique every aspect of your being,
Hiding their true intentions behind a fake grin.
They will wait for you fall to your knees,
Watching as your foundations start to crumble.

You will grab at your skin and pull at your hair,
Using every word they have ever said as an excuse.
You will try to hide who you really are,
Your race, your history, your beliefs.
You will focus on every thorn and nettle they have buried in you,
Never turning to see the roses growing in your hands.

You will take a step back,
Out of all the chaos and noise of their hate.
You will begin to plant seeds of your own
In the cracks in your veins that they left.
It will hurt to tear out the thorns and to burn off those nettles,
But oh god will it hurt more to walk with them through that forest of pain.