Vulnerability

So many have called me mean,

which I have wished to be after years of catching on barbs.

But for the first time, to bear my soul, and be called scary...

I quirk an eyebrow. The left, as it is more harsh.

I clench my teeth enough to be seen beneath lingering baby fat.

I stare until I am sure my gaze pierces, until it hurts, until you squirm.

You had become to feel like home, after years of displacement.

And yet...

You do not know me, but you are in love with me.

I wonder what I must look like in your everlasting mind.

I smile as you proclaim it, knowing you mean it not.

I remember your thorns, still bruising my side,

"I miss the girl I fell in love with."

"You'll be better soon."

"You can be better. I know it."

It is not spoken with scorn, but I taste the bitterness like old beer on the back of my tongue anyway.

And what if I am better than I've ever been?

What if I am at home within a skin you are sure is a cover, despite the raw, bloody gore you are handed?

No. To love me is to know who I am, bared and all. This is not love.

But that is fine. I will balm my own wounds. I will cherish my ache. I will celebrate my vulnerability.