I don't speak from my heart

The things which cannot be said.

I notice them with my brain,

The little things.

I'm proud of myself, for my bruises,

The way the soldier is proud after war.

The winner is the one who's dead,

The winner is not the one who's bereft,

But despite the circumstances

Of society's trivial stances

I'm happy I made it out of the war, with wear and tear —

Alive and scathed.

But such things are to be left out of view

By the more mundane, the few,

I've learnt to cry because it is expected, not because I might be,

Mildly,

Effected.

A maiden's face is glass,

It is useless if shattered, inexpensive

If cluttered, with the rest.

And compared to other ones

It is easier to set back and watch,

When others bruise themselves and repair,

A hearty comment, surely

A discussion

Between Adults

Of the importance of visuals,

It really doesn't affect me.

I'm crying because it may effect others.