Susceptible to sugarcoated venom, Always on the side of the blade rather than the side of the hilt,
Being given a band-aid after being given a stab.
That viscus inside is bullet-pocked, but still beating;
You revet fortresses of fortitude for them to be spider-cracked
During another’s target practice.
Pin cushion and punching bag of animate flesh,
You take draughts too frequently from another’s bitter cup.
Why make yourself a cuspidor, a silent butler or a hot-water-bag?
Why, in your naivety, be the tissue that mops up another’s salt water?
For, after you’re used and reduced to pulp,
You find yourself among all things used and refused.