Intimidation Factor

5 feet,

2 inches.

Long, brown hair,

Big, blue eyes.

This is me.

The girl who sobs whenever she sees dogs,

The girl who prefers the beach,

over the highest mountain peak.

The girl who drags her feet across the ragged concrete

because the only way you can go,

Is forward.

But, people don’t see that.

They don’t see the cracked wrinkles around my eyes,

From laughing too hard..

They don’t see my skinned over scar,

That I got from dancing on the jagged wood floor in my socks.

They see her.

The girl who’s headphones are so loud,

That the drums pound on the base of her neighbor’s eardrum.

The girl that “struts” through the hallways

with a stone cold expression.

But do they know?

Do they know how it feels to

push through the pressure

to become metamorphic?

Do they know how to fight through the heat

to see themselves become igneous?

But mostly,

Do they know how it feels to push through pressure,

and fight through blazing heat,

Just to become sedimentary, again?

It’s a rocky feeling.

The girl who, they think, is a not-so friendly butterfly,

After all,

Camouflage is meant to keep you alive,

right?

The girl who gives harsh, raw advice;

advice so raw that she leaves bloody footprints as she walks away.  

But instead of slapping on seasoning

and barbecuing it to perfection,

they let it rot.

Let the putrid smell sit in their nose because changing it for the better taste,

means that there is room for mistakes.

But I get it;

I mean I get the fact that you can’t barbecue anything to perfection

Because everyone has different taste buds.

And I understand that

and I just want to show them that taste buds can change

if you give people the chance to try it

and savor the taste.

But I can’t.

I can’t show them how to savor something

I can’t show them because I don’t have the power to take it

and shove it down your throat until you realize

“it’s not that bad”.

I don’t have the power to dangle it over their nose

Dangle it until the smell grows,

On them

But I’m trying.

Trying to show them that my harshness

means that I care deeper than the Marina Trench,

Because I know what it’s like to have someone

turn away from the salty stench.

Trying to show you that your silver armor,

Doesn’t always yield the fiery breath of a dragon

Don’t they see these burns I harbor?

They don’t.

All they see is the black.

I slip on the black boots,

that hold my feet together as they dance over rugged gravel.

I wiggle on my black, ripped jeans,

that resist the rubbing together of my thighs.

And l slide my black woven sweater over my torso,

that hides my faded pen tattoos.

And all they see is black.

They don’t see that all I yearn for,

Is a partner to tear up this black leather with.

And that I would love

if someone took their pen

And caressed it over my skin,

So I’m their canvas.

They don’t see that

I will clog my pores full of salt,

So that they can crystallize.

That I will shed my armor and

bear the blistering burns,

So that you can protect your perfect skin.

That I will stand at the grill

Until clock hands intertwine

and help you barbeque it to perfection,

As long as you drizzle the seasoning.

5 feet

2 inches

Long brown hair

And big blue eyes.

This is what I look like.

This is who I am.

They only see the bloody footprints

That I abandon on the floor.

They only smell the pungent rotting

That they let sit in their nose until their features cringe.

They only feel the frigid, stone expression

That I strut through the hallways with.

But,

I see the burn scars

That sizzle on my skin

I still smell the salt,

That used to weigh down my lungs

And I often still feel,

The heat and the pressure

That lived for crumbling me down

To make me sedimentary.

So you tell me,

When did assertion,

Turn into aggression?