Drip, drip, drip…

I might be bleeding.

Still holding my rifle, I keep my face straight. Always ready to fight back.

I might be bleeding, but I’m never crying.

Laying back, I don’t let people notice the wound.

Don’t be that soft to beg for empathy. People either don’t care, or pick on the weak.

I might be bleeding, but I’m still breathing.

I’ll put up a smile. I’ll be standing, even if my heart is bleeding.

When the wound heal, there will grow the thick skin.

Drip, drip, drip…

I’m bleeding, until I decide to stop it.