The pain sometimes
gets so ground in,
deep into your
weathered skin,
that it no longer feels like dirt.
Not there to be cleaned away.
It feels like armour.
A defence against the day.
Formed from the feelings
growing beneath.
It feels like
a bullet proof vest,
of grime and dark times,
a stab guard to protect
from the outside world's
buzzing hornets’ nest
of anger, hate and neglect.
It can feel like
a strained veil of invisibility.
Making people
no longer
see you or your grief.
It can be a stained blanket
of aggression
You use to push
those very people away.
making happiness but a brief
acquaintance that rarely stays
for more than a day.
The suit of armour,
an unwashed
Armani number
complete with rusted
chain link shirt,
and scuffed
metallic straight-jacket,
to deflect any hurt,
or form of attack.
But it also repels
those that want to place
a loving hand on your back.
Thanks for reading
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