You're holding a whip.

You don't see it or feel it,
You're barely aware of it's power,
But I know it's there.

I've felt it before,
Slashing against my back,
Carving deep red wounds.

They sting to the touch,
But I'm never able to twist far enough
around in the mirror to see them.

You're not the type to use it,
But I'll put up my fists anyway,
And throw warning punches at your kindness.

Please understand,
I'm scared of the whip,
My scars itch in its presence.

Please understand,
You are holding a whip.