I struggle out of battle
and you laugh.
You laugh as I limp,
you laugh as I recount
that this has indeed happened before.
“Commonplace,”
I sigh,
and you jeer,
because I am not a valiant warrior like the rest of them.
I do not dance through the task,
ease through the work,
speed through the job
like the rest of them.
But I feel it.
I feel the wind whip at my face as I turn and the hot rush of blood from a gash,
I feel my muscles cry out and my smooth sword struggle in my hand,
I feel my boots hit the ground,
I feel my hair flying in the chaos.
And the rest of them
notice
nothing.
I reveal my wound,
and you only laugh harder.
“That’s not really a ‘stab’,” you say.
“That’s only as bad as anyone else’s.
But they performed better. They were injured. They were able to complete the task with ease. Why not you?”
I try to tell you all of the things you can’t see,
but I can’t seem to enunciate the raw
feeling
that comes with my struggle.
The coarse difficulty that plagues my every move.
You do not understand.
You tell me I’m silly.
I’m average.
And you scold me for making light of those severely wounded.
I am sorry. I didn’t intend to maim others in my desperate struggle to cope.
I know there are people who are certainly worse off.
I love people who are certainly worse off.
But I love me, too.
I am trying to show you that I am hurt.
I don’t think there’s a word for my injury.
I try to describe it the best I can.
I think I exaggerate. Maybe I understate others’ troubles with my words. But I have to tell you something. I need you to tell me it’s okay to be hurt, or calmly assure me that it’s not as bad as I think. But do not tell me I am not wounded.
That only makes it hurt more.
Maybe you are uncomfortable with the idea of me being injured. Maybe you deny it because you cannot bear to accept it. Maybe you want to feel as though what you’ve sustained measures up. Maybe you simply do not understand.
But I am bandaging my own wound,
and you refuse to accept that I am injured enough to merit your sympathy.
You laugh.