when your armour is made from egg shells.

I work with a man who doesn’t know how to leak,
a suffering man,
boy, rather.

I feel like showing him what his hurt looks like,
perhaps others will feel less pain around him,
he equates strength with dominance,
he needs to learn how to leak,
and let grief be his poetry.

He doesn’t respond to death,
because he makes excuses for life.
he likes to shoot animals,
call it sport,
more dominance,
beating defenceless things keeps him alive.

I play dead all the time,
he doesn’t like that he can’t kill me,
my indifference,
slays him,
his him-ness is lonelier than I am.

W.E.

Funny enough, I’m kinder to him than anyone else at work.

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