They often walk without drooping heads.
I live among them for a reason.
Not displaced, stabbing over.
The wounded are not ugly,
Perhaps hallow in the areas
Behind the oozing.
If there were no angry, gapping wounds
The people may see the threads missing
In the world they were torn from.
I am yet gone,
But stepping up to the exit.
Yet, forming armor as I turn to the door,
Makes me a tender target
For the weapons I am leaving behind.