The blows you strike

aren't physical (not the ones

that hurt, at least).

But rather

each remark you've made

without understanding

why they hurt me so

And even if

you never see

what's underneath this perfect calm–

That's even worse.

You should know.

(Why don't you?)

I don't care that you hurt, too

for you don't care

if I hurt

You only think of yourself

while proclaiming how you're slave to us

(Why do it, then?)

Maybe then you'd know

that I write to escape,

(or even that I write

at all.)

You're blind, you see,

to all of us.

Especially me.

I act too strong.

(It weakens me.)

No one knows how one well-placed blow

will shatter me

into little bits.

(But will you notice?

I'm scared to know.

It might be no.)