Child, the skin on your cheeks is tougher than leather.
Always deep red as if every stare, whisper, snide comment
constantly ricochets off the hide of the Nemean lion.
But I know that while the wounds may not have pierced
your flesh, they have consumed you from the inside out until
all the armor has been stripped away and there is only you left.
You stand, as vulnerable as the rest of us,
just waiting for the hail of stones to break you.
But there is nothing but the mute breaths hanging in the still air.

They thought you strange, alien-like, your odd
mannerisms are so new to some, yet so familiar to me.
The way your eyes quiver as you fight the urge to dart around
for an unclosed face, and the way your hands stay rigid
is like a dream, a recollection, a memory.
Breathe, child, you are safe.
Grow a new skin free of the wounds of past battles you
did not win, and do not be ashamed of the scars left behind.
Life is a war you will not lose.