Battle Scars
Battle Scars
You assume I'm attention seeking, what with my shuffling around lethargically, swathed in layers. Talking quietly and being so meek that people say the animal I am most like is a mouse.
You assume I put all this effort into drumming up as much pity as possible, that I insist on playing the victim in order to try and make everyone feel sorry for me. So when I lift up my fringe, often hiding me from full view, to reveal a bruise and simply state my head ended up getting smacked against a wall twice the previous evening, that all I want is sympathy. That I want everyone to know my life is shit and to draw upon their pity like a love deprived leech. 'Look at me, I'm so on the edge of losing my mind. I throw myself around and need a hug and more attention to make it better.'
You're wrong, all of you. Yes I lift up my fringe, show my bruises and openly admit I did it to myself. No doubt you saw that small hint of pride in my tired, glassy eyes. You think I'm proud of manipulating those around me, achieving my goal of getting attention. And once again, you are wrong.
Yes there is pride showing in my fatigued eyes, but I know the real reason for its existence. I'm proud, simple as that. You say a weak victims' wounds, I say battle scars. A sign that I'm fighting back, that I'm not taking it quietly, accepting my fate. I'm damn proud that I am finally putting up enough resistance to make her panic. The reason I'm so meek and mouse like? Exhaustion. Having done what felt like the full five rounds the night before, only to get up and carry on fighting nigh on imminently. I feel, (understandably in my eyes) that little bit drained.
So I will continue to be a mouse, to flash a random bruise here or there, so tired yet so proud. Because if I stop, no more mouse behaviour, no more bruises, it means I have ceased fighting, and I will not let that happen. No I will not stop showing an occasional bruise, because I see them for what they really are. My battle scars.
You assume I put all this effort into drumming up as much pity as possible, that I insist on playing the victim in order to try and make everyone feel sorry for me. So when I lift up my fringe, often hiding me from full view, to reveal a bruise and simply state my head ended up getting smacked against a wall twice the previous evening, that all I want is sympathy. That I want everyone to know my life is shit and to draw upon their pity like a love deprived leech. 'Look at me, I'm so on the edge of losing my mind. I throw myself around and need a hug and more attention to make it better.'
You're wrong, all of you. Yes I lift up my fringe, show my bruises and openly admit I did it to myself. No doubt you saw that small hint of pride in my tired, glassy eyes. You think I'm proud of manipulating those around me, achieving my goal of getting attention. And once again, you are wrong.
Yes there is pride showing in my fatigued eyes, but I know the real reason for its existence. I'm proud, simple as that. You say a weak victims' wounds, I say battle scars. A sign that I'm fighting back, that I'm not taking it quietly, accepting my fate. I'm damn proud that I am finally putting up enough resistance to make her panic. The reason I'm so meek and mouse like? Exhaustion. Having done what felt like the full five rounds the night before, only to get up and carry on fighting nigh on imminently. I feel, (understandably in my eyes) that little bit drained.
So I will continue to be a mouse, to flash a random bruise here or there, so tired yet so proud. Because if I stop, no more mouse behaviour, no more bruises, it means I have ceased fighting, and I will not let that happen. No I will not stop showing an occasional bruise, because I see them for what they really are. My battle scars.