Shrapnel…

You run across a lot of people in life…some you love, some you don’t…

For many years she bit her tongue, until it toughened, thick with wear

And when her teeth had dulled enough, she manufactured shrapnel there.

She once was innocent and sweet, life and love before, green with hope.

But now the race is run, and love undone, spewing cartridge casings just to cope.

No need to look long or even hear, a few moments pass and all’s made clear.

Bitterness and gall must fill her soul, and endless, hopeless, useless, depsair and fear.

Some may say it’s not her fault. They’d say she was pushed past care.

But I think otherwise. It’s she who chooses, to manufacture shrapnel there.