Immunity
I'm not Immune
I hear it everywhere I go.
Eventually, they say it,
As jokes or criticism,
The bladed words that sink deep.
Each time I laugh along,
Believing it's nothing,
Immune of some sort,
Knowing that I'm used to it.
But there is always a small part.
A small part that stings,
Slicing the scar once again.
I hide it, not wanting to make a fuss.
I try to pay no mind to it,
Not wanting to seem weak,
Trying to preserve our bond,
And believing in our connection.