I've got something to talk about, but I am just a little afraid. An itch where I cannot reach is bothering me. When I try to gently rub it, it leaves me unsatisfied and a little bitter. It dispels the worst for a minute or two, then flares brighter, hotter.
I can feel it spreading, and I can feel it sinking in. It is a hundred cuts in my gut. It's a sacrifice I am supposed to make, though I can't clearly see who benefits. Does anyone benefit from pointless martyrdom?
You see, it is such a tiny thing. Don't want to complain because it's a tiny thing; not fit for words, not gonna explain.
Somebody must benefit, or why would I creep? Or is it the confusion of the ancient betrayal forged on new contracts?
— Rebecca M. Forté