when you make me bleed,
all you succeed at achieving
is making my body weak.
i sit there and wait for it to heal,
feeling starkly mortal and human,
breakable.
i wait for it to pass,
plan, scheme,
sit up and go
press on the wound,
staunch the bleed,
wipe it clean.
all shall pass. on it goes.
when they make me into a joke,
bruising not my body but my ego,
lock onto my insecurity,
turn it into a weapon, turn it against me,
breaking not my bones but my spirit,
piss on my opportunities,
make my name synonymous with shame,
stain my reputation
with public humiliationsā
why, I'd rather break and bleed
a thousand times
than suffer this emotional pain.
it cannot be wiped away.
it cannot be cleaned.
it doesn't pass, not so simple to heal.
i lay awake, body burning with shame,
fever-bright with no infection to speak of,
turning over every laugh, every detail,
feeling bare and seen even fully covered.
worse yet, no one thinks it's a big deal.
no one thinks daily humiliation
is as serious as
a cut that bleeds.
when you make me bleed,
all you succeed at achieving
is making me feel starkly mortal.
when they make me into a joke,
bruising not my body but my ego,
i feel
distinctly
like an animal.
subhuman.
naked.
preyed on, gawked at.
worth less than
a person.
hide me, don't look at me.
your eyes burn, burn upon me.
break me, bruise me,
treat me like an enemy to beat,
an honorable duel or a dirty fight,
glory in might and clever manoeuvres,
but don'tā
don't humiliate me.
don't dehumanise me.
flay my skin from my bones,
ply my nails from their beds,
there's a certain diginity to be had
in surviving that,
but don't defile me.
don't debase me
for everyone to see.
the body heals and forgets,
but the mind still remembers
how it felt
when you dehumanised it.