Seventy-five: The Little Wince

I hate it when people shudder at the sight of my scars.
Please, they say. I can’t bear to think of the pain
you went through.
I think, Exactly.
Pain that I went through,
not you.

It’s funny how actual pain fades
in the shadow of someone else’s
thought. How do you think
I’m supposed to feel
when you wince?

I thought you were stronger.
Then again,
I thought I was weaker
I like being wrong like this.

I guess I should feel ugly.
But I don’t.
I feel like steel.

Actually, your
cowardice makes me wince.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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