His innocence stung me; like a bee on the first day of spring.
I couldn't get the stinger out of the welt that had grown around it.

Here he was; untouched and unscathed.
Here I am; unspoken and unattached.

I used to think we were alike.
That I, too, was a simple girl in a simple way.

I now know that we are different.
That he, too, is unable to know the horror, only the grief.

And this welt will grow bigger and bigger, day by day;
But I don't have the heart to pull the stinger out of my skin.

It has made itself apart of me, apart of my pain.
And for some reason, I like the pain.

I like the sting of innocence, blatantly mocking my used persona.
And he likes the way hide my delicacy beneath it.