You're a perfect player; still you turn away
picking at the mould covering crumbling wall:
No one will ever choose you for the team -
you're the last one left and pretending you don't care.
The rage is dancing in your eyes. Subtle
flames feeding on the hurt hidden deep inside -
so deadened by denial even you don't realise it's there.
They say you have sadistic tendencies. It irritates, so
you pull wings off flies and snicker as they
twist agonisingly
On cracked windowsill. Now you know –
You aren't alone. They hurt the same.
Psychiatrists write books on behaviours
such as these – and wonder who will be the
first to fall.
But you learn to conceal yourself from them,
the way you erased all emotion –
who knew there was destruction in safety?