I heard the cutting words–the words that re-wrote my history,
that sliced and carved out something foreign from my fragile self–
and all along, I thought we were friends.
Words cut and hearts bleed,
and my protective shell adds another layer,
with another box checked on my list of the untrustworthies.
The betrayal stings, and I feel safe in my anger
until the still,
small voice . . . you know,
that still, small voice that comes with video playback of all the character assessing I have engaged in–fully justified, of course–because I am right and you are wrong in almost every situation.
And after all, those were not criticisms as much as critiques . . . of unwise actions and intolerable slights, the stuff of prayer requests.
So my 2 cents worth invested has become a stock pile,
and I am being paid in dividends that I did not imagine.