you told me i was gentle
a reed in a world of sharp swords
malleable and wavering
breakable

you told me i was vulnerable
a grain of sand
pulled along with the stream
unable to swim against the current
for fear of making waves

you told me i was sensitive
a petal in the clammy palm of a child
who could not resist the temptation
of pulling apart a flower
so delicate and sweet

this was my weakness
my weak-ness

i became a sword
cold and unfeeling  
wielded by an
unbreakable insecurity

i became the moon
bending the tide to my will
uprooting the silt
upon which it sits

i became a wasp
a parasite
feeding from flowers
that so naively welcomed me in

or so i supposed
i suppose

i endured them
the swords my mother warned me against
the currents that drag  
down down down
the wasps that hunt and hurt
with their poisonous sting

and with dismay
and with relief
i was gentle