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.