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.
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