My words seem void to their unchanging mind

Each crafted phrase drops to the floor

no one picks them up.

no helpful mediator orders them

 to accept my earnest attempts at having them understand-

rather

with blatant disregard for my attempt at communion,

their words are thrown like darts,

sinking deep into my forgiving skin,

and I must endure each wound with forged disregard.

Suffering through the bleed.

In our youth, words were shared like Sunday meals.

Eagerly accepted, eagerly shared.

My words today are picked and prodded.

They take what they want

 and burn the rest.