These are my wounds; they hurt me so much more
than any wound you may have ever had.
For you to talk of your wounds would be bad
when my wounds are still pus-filled, jagged, raw.
You cannot see them; that's because your sight
is lacking not because they are not there.
You have such privilege; you get to wear
dark glasses that can make day into night
and hide my scars from you. So please defer
to my far greater knowledge of my pain,
accept there's something rotten in your brain
and I'm just better than you ever were.
You've had such great good fortune all your life.
Now please offer your throat up to my knife.
Which am I? I am both, like all of us.