The Noodle that Needed Softening

You are the boiling brass pot of water

She is the noodle that needed to soften

You went easy on me, but after I let down no walls

You had to try harder and that’s why intimacy scares her because it always pushes her farther

Than her feet are willing to carry such weight

and the anxiety traps one in more often

And while I wield the power to unlock the gate

I feel locked inside my emotions

I fear that if I pour all this passion into your cupped hand the majority of me will splash right onto the marble floors

Not to mention the spill feeling like a casual accident but will you at least try to hold onto me?

Will you try to hold onto me by my sides not my lid

after you’ve done such slick and slippery work of grasping my layers and biting back at my bruised places

can you see past the image of this secure strong woman

who is only so resolutely withstanding breakage because she disallows the smallest tinge of fragile care

can you see through the transparence of strength  in exchange for her vulnerabilities in need of repair

that which breaks resets to passion anew through her honest and forgiving prayer

She is not so strong as to not flood cities when outpoured

For the same strength that drives men away

Was a love they at first adored

The same strength that drives out fear

was an intimidation rest assured

While she is the noodle that needed to soften

She would like to say that she possesses the kind of softness that you do not feel with your hands

her wispy softness comes in whispered conversation

in footsteps treading lightly to sneak out of broken homes

in woodpecker taps on  doors left ajar just to warn the inhabitant of your entrance

in the thunder barely audible

sourced at a storm whose rain you never want to feel drip down your face the way tears do

her softness is the tear that has ever violently ripped down your cheek, but never made a sound,

you never made a sound, in the same kind of hard, quite fortitude we all love to feign

Except she doesn’t pretend, at least not anymore,

because all the tears were dress rehearsals till she finally learned her lines

In the act, she concluded her pain was divine

And she doesn’t have to play unaffected when pain is applied

She made pain her stronghold

And overcoming, her hobby in her free time

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s