Spoken weapons, like knives,
thrown with haphazard abandon
from unstained, lily fingertips
that have never endured a constant
barrage of their own unique, sharpened prejudice.
They know not the extent of harm
the art of malice of which they're schooled;
quiet and infinitesimal points,
but fine-tuned and precise nonetheless
in its verbally-maligned execution.
Skin feels breakage from surface cuts,
however small, however weak, however in jest,
a patchwork of cuts like a grim mural
barely holding inside a thundering heart
aching for a storm of retaliation.
Trickery of the grinning lily-hand
"It was just a joke!"
"I didn't mean it like that!"
"It's not that serious!"
"We're still cool, right?"
I, smirking toothless,
My laugh is warm; my mind is anything but 'cool.'
You may query:
Why do you NOT retaliate?
"The hands of these weapons are firm,
but your tongue should be firmer!" you may say,
as sharp, as precise, as poisonous.
"That dastardly foe can't get away with that!"
Foe? Of what 'foe' do you speak?
I spoke of words as weapons,
but I spoke of no foe.
I speak of spoken weapons, only gaining sentience,
through the grasp of a reckless wielder,
and though sticks and stones may break bones,
words still manage to be sharper.
Weaponry attains lethality through use,
and words used become spoken weapons when causing pain,
and of course, pain heals over time,
but scars gain permanence when the source of spoken weaponry
is from a friend.
"Friend" being a friend.
"Friend" being family.
"Friend" being anyone holding a jar
containing a piece of your precious trust.
A jar worn 'round their neck like jewelry,
glistening amidst other little jars,
proudly showcasing their supposed prestigious, infallible spirit
only for sunlight to reflect off of your particular jar,
blindsiding you entirely, with little to no reaction time,
as they jerk and shift with vigor,
wielding verbal arsenal that claws with a sense of depth
that no 'foe' could ever accomplish.
There is no preparation for attack,
because 'attack' implies
But in reckless hands,
spoken weaponry possesses no thought,
and at the hands of one so familiar,
no thought is spared,
"after all, we're friends!"
until long after the smoke clears.
And much as I writhe in pain
from your spoken weaponry,
I consume silently,
for I cannot, my friend, bring myself
to weaponize vernacular and bring upon you
any amount of hurt in the way you've brought.
Comfort yourself, however, because
My armor is strong,
My armor is resilient,
My armor is ever-changing,
My armor is damaged,
But my armor remains,
because I am made of tougher mettle
than your counterfeit metal.
I suppose my only concern,
is my need to wear armor around you