Burn

I'd always thought 

I handled stress well.  

Had a picture of myself

in my head 

of a woman who 

could walk through fire… 

till I took a stroll once or twice 

in the furnace.

Abednigo, I am not.

Now.

I am well fired clay.

Strong but brittle.

Not scorched, 

but damaged 

in that I can

never be made into

something other 

than the form I was

when I entered the kiln.

Fragile

I’d envisioned getting older 

as a toughening process.

I believed that when I was matured, 

when my grey hairs had arrived,

my heart would be mighty.

That each beat and each thud

would be audible to those

who claimed a bit of my love.

Instead I find I'm brittle and worn through, 

that those things which did not kill me

most assuredly did NOT make me stronger.

I suspect I 'm doing it wrong.

That Hole

It feels like you wish 

that I was different,

perhaps, 

more perfectly suited 

to help you feel better. 

I don't think the person 

you wish I was 

exists anywhere. 

The hole you are trying 

to make me fit in 

is not 

a person shaped hole.