My Knight Sans Armor
My Knight Sans Armor
By M. Allshouse
My words are the weight on your shoulders—
a burden of great concern and warmth
you were unprepared to carry.
I never meant for them to be heavy.
But when you’ve spent years in silence,
even comfort can feel oppressive.
When the lexicon I’ve tempered—
meant to bear the weight of your troubles—
becomes an anvil crushing your soul,
how am I to recover?
You throw them down in distaste,
carve away my care
as though it were harmful etymology,
crafted only to encumber you.
They were never meant to hamper.
They were always meant to lift—
to wrap around your shoulders
like a warm shield from the world’s turmoil.
But even armor can feel like burden
when shouldered like stone
for unworthy gods.
I do not wish to be your master.
Quite the opposite, really—
and maybe that is the issue at heart.
I tend to thrust myself prostrate
before those I deem worthy.
And praise that high
can feel—
Burdensome.
Like a responsibility
you never asked for.
But my praise comes without expectation,
without condition or demand.
It does not hinge on how you treat me—
if it did,
I'd never have hoisted this mantle back up
to protect you.
The chainmail would still be rotting,
left discarded on the ground at hello.
You are a knight without armor—
more noble than a white knight.
You’ve won battles
with nothing but your will.
I simply wish to tend your wounds,
listen to the stories you carry,
and remind you—
you are that much stronger
for having walked through hell.
To whisper fairytales of better tomorrows,
to imagine what we could build
if you’d let me close.
Your words—angry,
like a lance meant to pierce me
as if I were a jousting opponent
meant to challenge you.
I do not mind bleeding.
I know you don’t mean to.
You’re used to surprise matches,
underhanded enemies
who sought to break your ribs,
to leave you bleeding in the fields
until your heart forgot its name.
Some weren’t bold enough to strike.
They poisoned you slowly,
watching life slip from your eyes
day by day.
And I think that’s why your defenses are high—
cemented in worry.
You call it paranoia.
But I see it.
I’ve lived it.
And that is why
I praise you so highly.
I want to shield you with truth.
You—
you are more than wounds survived,
more than steel from sorrow spun.
You never had to prove your worth—
but gods,
you shine like someone who won.
My Knight Sans Armor
By M. Allshouse
My words are the weight on your shoulders—
a burden of great concern and warmth
you were unprepared to carry.
I never meant for them to be heavy.
But when you’ve spent years in silence,
even comfort can feel oppressive.
When the lexicon I’ve tempered—
meant to bear the weight of your troubles—
becomes an anvil crushing your soul,
how am I to recover?
You throw them down in distaste,
carve away my care
as though it were harmful etymology,
crafted only to encumber you.
They were never meant to hamper.
They were always meant to lift—
to wrap around your shoulders
like a warm shield from the world’s turmoil.
But even armor can feel like burden
when shouldered like stone
for unworthy gods.
I do not wish to be your master.
Quite the opposite, really—
and maybe that is the issue at heart.
I tend to thrust myself prostrate
before those I deem worthy.
And praise that high
can feel—
Burdensome.
Like a responsibility
you never asked for.
But my praise comes without expectation,
without condition or demand.
It does not hinge on how you treat me—
if it did,
I'd never have hoisted this mantle back up
to protect you.
The chainmail would still be rotting,
left discarded on the ground at hello.
You are a knight without armor—
more noble than a white knight.
You’ve won battles
with nothing but your will.
I simply wish to tend your wounds,
listen to the stories you carry,
and remind you—
you are that much stronger
for having walked through hell.
To whisper fairytales of better tomorrows,
to imagine what we could build
if you’d let me close.
Your words—angry,
like a lance meant to pierce me
as if I were a jousting opponent
meant to challenge you.
I do not mind bleeding.
I know you don’t mean to.
You’re used to surprise matches,
underhanded enemies
who sought to break your ribs,
to leave you bleeding in the fields
until your heart forgot its name.
Some weren’t bold enough to strike.
They poisoned you slowly,
watching life slip from your eyes
day by day.
And I think that’s why your defenses are high—
cemented in worry.
You call it paranoia.
But I see it.
I’ve lived it.
And that is why
I praise you so highly.
I want to shield you with truth.
You—
you are more than wounds survived,
more than steel from sorrow spun.
You never had to prove your worth—
but gods,
you shine like someone who won.