The Introverts' Nightmare

Liquid satin rolling down a cheek,
As predators hunt the humble and meek,
Lacerating those they don't understand,
Licking the blood off of their clawed hands.

Wounding with words, weapons, and fist,
Spirits breaking; blood spraying, like a fine mist,
that, oh so slowly, soaks through the bone,
and leaves not one thing untouched or alone.

Fragile heartbeats now pound ever harder,
As introverts are turned into martyrs,
For a cause that remains a mystery,
Forever buried in their personal history.