I am not a saint
merely,
A wilted plant,
acquiescent
Paralyzed by inaction
I am weary
Of your hurtful words
Which always end up feeling
Like knife wounds.
And I grow tired of being stabbed
the punctures, the piercings
Being left to bleed out while onlookers
Stare on with their pathetically blank gazes
For my ever-disintegrating armor
With all its shabbiness
Diminished and deteriorated
Can no longer take it.