The wounds of my battles- they show not.
The scores upon my face, the gashes
Across my heart
That threaten to undo; that I might face
Mortality. In body and spirit
I wage war.
Against their arrows; and their blades brandished
So near to my flesh, so that they might
Strip me away.
I have no armor; no smith would forge any
So strong to repel blows of my enemies.
I forge my own.
A helmet of brass that they would not see
The pain written- engraved in my face,
My eyes.
Thick clothes that they would not see me, nor the
Retaliation hidden in the fabric.
A breastplate,
That nothing should harm my heart; so that no
Sword could touch me, nor sharp word wound my soul.
To no avail.
My heart is wounded beyond repair, but ought that be
Concern?
My soul is torn away, stripped from me- should I
Care?
My own honor trampled, mocked to my face
As I am savagely declared to be
Unworthy of a mother's love.
What complaint have I that they would allow?
What reparation ought I receive,
As I am seen a beast?
So I mock them in turn, that their remarks nay
Lay a scratch
"Cut me deeply- my soul bleedeth not for thee."