On some days my shell is impenetrable. Nothing, absolutely nothing can phase me. I will withstand any and everything the world throws at me. “Is that your best?” I yell back, baring my teeth, egging life on “Come on then, I dare you!” I am psychotic, my mother’s daughter, part daring, part foolish.
On other days, however, I am my mother’s daughter; my skin is paper thin, I am worn and haggard, unable to muster a mustard seed’s worth of courage. On days like these, I stare at the scuff marks on my boots and dissolve into tears. I promised to take good care of my personal belongings and yet here we are; a scuff on the toe of my left boot, a hole in the neck of my favorite cardigan, my poor, poor heart… battered and bruised.
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Quiet women and other myths: A collection of musings
PoetryI wouldn't go so far as to call this poetry (which would imply that *I* am a poet), but I can safely call this a collection of musings, thoughts and sometimes badly strung up words about anything and everything.
