A million words are thrown a million times
passing through the space of the absent armor
that was cast aside and abandoned
for the passionate strength of vulnerability.
Passing through my soul without a home.
But one in a million, rather than passing by unslowed,
rather than failing in it’s attempt to find a friction, a handhold, a life…
One in a million will find that remaining place
of self-condemnation and infectious accusation.
The place that still calls me unworthy and defective and insufficient.
That one in a million magnifies the feeble voice of hatred and shame
a million times over to remind me that it’s still alive
and to try and pose as a much stronger thing than it is.
It tries to tell me to wear the armor once again.
The armor that allowed it to grow and poison
and subvert and numb and lull into a quiet death of desperate suffocation.
And it knows it has found it’s voice in that one word in a million.