The details of my pain were written out in a reply.
Not even a status
Not a comment
Like a ready-made sword to use against me.
Like a sniper-rifle to my heart
A way to discredit and disarm my words, my pain, and my life.
Not in defense
Because there was no attack.
Nothing more than frusteration, seeming childish, born of knowing that even the right thing wasn’t enough.
Don’t let them bleed you with the sorrow of truth.
With the pain of the past or grievance of the deceased.
There’s more to life and to work towards,
And they cannot harm you
With poorly-forged swords.