the depth of what you think you know

“grab a knife and slit your wrists”
they say without compassion or
possession of their words
that flow in a smooth, cutting way.
but you don’t have to listen
to the thoughts
that make you sick
you don’t have to know
who they pay or what they say
it doesn’t matter
it’s unforgivable anyways
you don’t know the meaning
of the words that are your labels
you can’t know
the modern fables
you’re just grasping for attention
waiting for an
intervention
you don’t know what isn’t true
you don’t know
what it’s like to be you

you are transparent
in that way, it is apparent
that’s what they say
when they talk about you
but they don’t know where
you stand
take a heart
or take a hand
but they can hear your voice
they turn to give
the daily dirty look
but all there is
would be a wall
other than that,
nothing at all
read them like a book
which makes up
for the dignity that their words took
to find your heart, don’t ask me where
I never said that life was fair.