A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

I know you serve a purpose. You

go about it all the wrong ways

(and yes, I’m allowed to say that)

but on some level, you are

my survival instinct, 

a primitive armour,

a parry and riposte,

a reflex,

and if you are still so present,

still clamouring for my attention,

then it’s not so much that I must listen

to the words you say (they are cruel 

and destructive, and often untrue)

but I must listen to your existence,

listen to your pain, and try to decipher

what has incited you.