For your listening pleasure
It’s a heartquake, of sorts.
It’s devastating to find oneself inadequate.
Those little inconceivable, undeniable truths are simply
the death knell of that fundamental core.
One can shellac over the hairline fractures,
those nearly invisible scars that come taking from blow after blow to our fragile egos
We think we are stronger for it
Beating our breasts and shouting
But the blade of inadequacy, once felt, never withdraws,
and you live with it sticking out of your chest like a medallion
because to remove it would mean that you may die while you breathe