Swords, knives or bombs couldn't hurt me,
As much as words do.
Poison spills from the mouth of those whom I hold dear,
Infecting me.
They spill them out and forget.
Yet, it is my mind
And mine alone
That cradles them,
Nurtures them
and watches them
Grow into a poisonous rose
With thorns and a mind
That is of its own,
Which seems bent
On pricking me,
Hurting me,
Making me bleed.
No, I am indestructible to everything else.
My death will be through words and words alone.
