A tremor, deep inside,
when the unexpected word
strikes home. Not a fist,
not a shout, but a whisper,
a casual dismissal,
or a glance held too long,
or not long enough.
It doesn't bleed, not red.
It splintered inward,
from battles long past,
from arguments left open
like wounds to the air.
Each tiny shard,
a glint of remembered pain,
lodged beneath the skin
of composure.
You walk, you talk,
you...
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