I don't speak from my heart
The things which cannot be said.
I notice them with my brain,
The little things.
I'm proud of myself, for my bruises,
The way the soldier is proud after war.
The winner is the one who's dead,
The winner is not the one who's bereft,
But despite the circumstances
Of society's trivial stances
I'm happy I made it out of the war, with wear and tear —
Alive and scathed.
But such things are to be left out of view
By the more mundane, the few,
I've learnt to cry because it is expected, not because I might be,
A maiden's face is glass,
It is useless if shattered, inexpensive
If cluttered, with the rest.
And compared to other ones
It is easier to set back and watch,
When others bruise themselves and repair,
A hearty comment, surely
Of the importance of visuals,
It really doesn't affect me.
I'm crying because it may effect others.