Born sickly and weak,
For time and vanity’s defeat.
Silence; because words offer no retreat.
Clinging, like a child to a protective sheet.

Broken and cracked the sensitive skin,
Dipped in liquid, dripping like sin.
From off me oozed the passionate hate,
Subjected always to the substance I hate.

Decrepit and pale,
A smile; a grin the veil.
Not a sound, not a single wail.
Self-fulfilling; destined to fail.

There were no words for me to speak,
But one thousand things to make me weak.
Mortality, in a soft pale shell.
Morbidity, suffering and constantly unwell.

Slowly and gradually learning to speak,
Always preferring to stay inside my head and think.
Scolded for miss-speaking,
From every word bitterness came to seep.

Silver was infused into my tongue,
For anyone who doubted I was strong.
Whipping others with my words,
To hide my own hurt.

Now the tongue is taken,
Whips the flesh of its maker
Can it break the skin of the one it’s in?
Fighting a battle it knows it cannot win.

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