It was

all I ate, in a fever—the world
and its salt cracklings, a world 
of bitter aftertastes washed down 
with weak dispatches about how all 
shall be well. Oh, don't mistake my 
sadness for a hardness of heart. 
On the contrary, I am constantly 
accused of having been too trusting,
too soft rather than steely in resolve.
Thus have I been made to hang my head 
in shame, though I paw at the rocky ground
with my hooves to signify that even then, I 
didn't, don't, give all of myself up. Inside, 
there's a room where I refuse to be pummeled.