Papercuts
They say you can’t pull purses from a sow’s ear—
Yet somehow, they make mountains from molehills.
In whispered tones, the barbs take flight:
A glance, a comment, gone out of sight.
They pry softly, unseen by the eye,
A question cloaked in a veil of why.
Then comes the throbbing—
The hurt, the ache, the quiet longing—
A subtle attempt to discredit,
Like bad news buried in Reddit threads.
It seems absurd—
Not saying a word
Can sever a nerve.
It’s the kind of pain
That catches you unawares.
You barely notice the cut
Until the sting arrives—
Light-hearted complaints
On your fingers, or the inside of my mouth,
Tend to hurt the most.
The smile that falters, the laugh that strains,
Each little jab, a soft, stinging rain.
“You’re so articulate,” they praise, unaware
That words carry weight, a burden to bear.
A seat at the table, yet pushed aside—
Invisible lines where respect has died.
“You’re different,” they say, as if a gift,
But in that distinction, the soul can drift.
Small wounds, like paper cuts inside the mouth,
Heal quickly, but the irritation lingers—
A thousand small cuts, never meant to offend,
Yet wounds the heart cannot easily mend.
So pause. In this moment, let it sink in.
Listen with your skin; let’s ease another’s pain.
For each cut there’s a chance to repair—
Let’s build bridges, to show we care.
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