I'm tired of being patient and
Letting others drag their boots
Over my crooked spine. I smile—
Not realizing that
They choose to see weakness,
Naivety. I may be a little too kind,
Like alcohol on an open wound.
Painfully nice.
But behind my expression,
My blood boils, waiting to spill,
And my lungs fill with words
I dare not breathe—for they will cut.
I will not be a doormat onward,
I will be selfish,
Lighting fires around me to warn,
Letting the boot draggers know
That I am not or ever was
What they assumed.