Shatter.

Words.
They pretend-
pretend to be knives.

Yet the damage.
So deep, so fresh.
Invisible, yet, no tourniquets.
Can't you see?
Can't you hear?

My body- covered.
My screams- so loud.
So loud.
But it's not your range.
Nor the language- the language lost too long ago,
so long, only we speak it.

Mirror, mirror, on the floor-
who's the vicious of them all?

The one who speaks.
Who pushed me down the rabbit hole-
now I have no way out,
lost in the woods-
Where am I?
Who am I?

The smokes, the colors, the smell, the sight-
Strangest things surround me with thoughts,
some want change, some want someone else,
and even some, the death of my identity.

No, my shields are no use,
do I fight back?
Then I'd be back where I started.
Where I never wanted to be.
After all, it all began when I started running.

The books!
Oh the books.
They were the ones to start me off.
They are the ones who gave them the tasks.
The task, in which they must create a mold.
So that they can cut me out with it.
To fit in.
To be someone 'safe', who'll bring no change.
No news.

We fear change,
the new,
the strange.
So why not cut her out?
It's fine if she's missing a piece or two,
or her self.
As long as she fits the mold.

So they then went, the mold in mind,
cutting, cutting so she fits.
But she still won't,
so they speak.
The words still.
Cutting, cutting.