Another Form of Abuse

Pity wraps itself in soft disguises,  

a velvet rope around tired ankles.  

"Let me carry you," it murmurs sweetly,  

but who asked for the burden shared?  

It crowds spaces meant for breath,  

pulling hunger from an empty plate,  

turning resilience into something shameful,  

a shaking head full of doubt, not pride.  

Pity looks at you, then looks away,  

afraid to meet the depth of struggle.  

It salts wounds, calls it cleansing care,  

marks you fragile with each passing glance.  

Do not dress me in your sorrowed lace.  

I was not seeking eyes to bear my grief.  

To pity is a mirror’s cruel reflection;  

it sees itself, but not the warrior whole.