Sometimes I feel placid,

like a never ending skyline,

or the horizon when the ocean’s over cast.

 

I told her I would still exist,

in the aftermath of her storm,

and thus far it is true.

 

and yet it is not much of an existence.

Some days my skin is paper thin,

and others I am full of grey cement.

 

My mother raised me with steel bones.

I slept in stones and dreamt of diamond teeth,

I was always taught resilience.

 

But what you’re not told of being strong,

is the disorientation,

of opening your eyes,

of putting down your fists,

and having nothing left,

to

swing

at.