Dirty

I am a fucking warrior. A survivor. I have leaves in my hair, blood in my mouth, and holes in my clothes. I stand before you with a medal in my fist and more achievements to my name than most will earn in a lifetime. You FORGED ME. You left me out to die and I THRIVED.

And YOU. Have lost ALL CREDENCE in criticizing the state of me, of my scars, or my abilities.

Who are you? Loud aggressor, who not only haven't felt the fires I've walked through, but lit them, kindled them, and pushed me in?

You can't touch me.

I know who I am.

Fever Pitch

 I turned my volume down. Curbed my language. Shifted my priorities. Paused myself. Squeezed into a dress made for a ghost. Who am I now?

You said I offended you even then. Why did you pretend? Or are you pretending now?

Who could love someone so big? So brash? So lonely? So ambitious? So much? There is so much of me. Who could possibly make room for me without modifications? Without trimming the fat of my passions, my humor, my interests, my voice, my attention, my thirst for little droplets of affection? Who could love me without telling me to tone down? Is it dangerous - that I could still grow?

I could swallow the world if it told me I was enough. Just enough. Not too much. The right amount.

I just want to be the right amount.

.

"Put me next to another - they've got gadgets and gizmos, all I have is a torso. A box with a pipe and a shutter; it heaves, it swells, and it sighs and it yells."