i didn't wail like a child. i nodded; i agreed,
ego bruises blackened by my own additional blows.
i know now that 'sorrys' are your self-absolution.
we know now that mature means merely compliant.
i am nowhere near a martyr, i am a casualty of myself,
feeling nothing unless it's punched me in the gut.
this bitter aftertaste of a heart
-- a horror story dichotomy of empowered and fragile --
wanting to bathe in glitter 'til it seeps from my veins
or feeling like a lighter burn with no band-aid in sight,
if only because i begged for new wounds.