They wound me.
Their words sting.
Like small, dying bees.
Desperate but weak.
The intention hurts the most.
What did I do to inspire contempt?
Why hurl word-weapons my way?
Wounding one who would not wound them?
They wound me.
Their words sting,
But they curse themselves with the unnecessary bitterness.
A week from now I will barely feel the bite.
A month from now the story may even make me laugh.
A year from now I will be carrying the lesson of whom I can trust,
And will have set down the pain of disappointment.
I will not own those words.
Those hard, resilient words will still belong to them,
They will be following them,
Everywhere they go,
Choking their throats,
Flying about their faces,
Blinding them to the truths and the beauty of life.
They wound me.
Their words sting,
But they curse themselves.
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