On a Blackfoot,
Played bare,
No armour, no shield,
Just skin,
And what lies beneath it.
Open to everything,
The warmth,
The wreckage,
The way the wind kisses
And cuts,
All the same.
It invites truth
If you allow it,
But truth is a blade
In the wrong hands.
So it is twisted,
Bent,
Rewritten by others
Who never knew
How much it took
To stay soft.
It can be manipulated,
Abused,
Spat out
Like chewed beetle,
Discarded for daring
To feel
Out loud.
Still,
What power
To feel deeply,
To remain
Unhidden,
Even if the world
Only sees weakness,
While you carry
The quiet strength
Of staying open.
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