a poem
The stoic,
the stone cold,
the artifice
are officious,
superfluous
attempts
at being impervious.
Like these words on the page.
I am human.
Not concrete
not brick
but similar to a plant
not quite a sponge.
I have a soul
and feelings.
Semi-permeable.
You see me looking cold?
You perceive me as hard?
You believe I am a bitch?
What you see,
what you perceive,
what you believe
are my non-porous,
non-negotiable
boundaries.
