It’s the little things you do;
like holding a door

that irritates the Hell out of me.

I am not your rose fed goose, or a blonde haired nymph,

I never wanted that weekend in Paris, that forced upon me anxious insanity

yes, insane, that is what
they’ll call me.
The doctors and nurses, shrinks and quacks

but I am not
and never was

I just wanted to be a girl ,
a little more than I wanted
to be

a woman