Words of wax plastered to the center of my chest
Ripping it off like a bandaid
won't relieve the pain sticking to my skin, no.
No Alleviation for the unkind words
Seeping doubt further into my fragile spirit
Your need to feel superior
Are Fists crushing pedals
To draw out the Fine essence of who is made from them
Stealing sweet floral scent that never belonged to the consumer.
You're a moth in the Butterfly Garden,
Trying to reflect light with grey scale wings.
Deceptive practices, to make believe
That I bend at your will,
And will leave your mark as a branding to flaunt.
I will not Break.