I am not strong.
At least that's what I tell myself
when I look at myself,
and bite at the inside of my cheek
when I get nervous or anxious,
and refuse to open the door
when the clock strikes eleven,
and squeeze my eyes shut
when I refuse to believe -
You only call my spineless
because all you see is skin.
I am not strong,
but I believe that I have been broken
far more times than the skeletal
two hudred and six.
I believe that I have been detached
from the trunks of this world
like a loose leaf sweeping through the air.
I believe that I have been scratched
at more than a cat and his scratch post.
The words you speak
are weak.
I am not strong,
but I am fury blocked
behind a tight-lipped smile,
and a stiff nod of the head.
I am not strong,
but I am gun powder
lining a blazing ring of fire -
Light up a match
and set the ring on fire.
Keep your head held high,
oh brave one,
and put your best foot forward
and come see
that I am not strong,
but I am strength -
I will not make you shudder with fear,
but I will tear up and gnaw at the
broken and cracked ground
that you so valiantly walk upon.
