Call me a fool.

I won't sew your mouth shut, I won't block your path. Call me heartless and I'll split my chest open to show you what's pulsing, what's bruised and lacerated and aching like hell and still alive. I'll show you my scars and burns, I'll turn my neck and show you the jagged slice where I was foolish enough to trust a knife against my throat.

Call me weak.

I won't rage against the accusation, I won't deny with vigorous defiance. I'll sit down and absorb each and every slur because you'll never understand. I'll take the wicked slices and soak them in, my skin cut open and bare. I'll let you paint me into a corner and I won't try to leave. I'll open my hands and stand with my palms facing the sun. I'll sigh and stand with my ribs dropping slowly, one by one to my feet.

Call me broken.

I won't shake my head, I won't cut off the insults. I'll just lift my shirt and show you where I've staunched the blood. I'll show you the homemade stitches, the places where circumstance and reality were too cruel and I was too slow to jump away. I'll show you the knife-wounds and places where gunmetal was under my chin.

I'll show you how I danced in the flame and I won't call the places where it licked my flesh bare hideous. I'll show you how the scars all add up, I'll show you the places where they pucker and cross. I'll let you touch the parts where my elbows have been scrubbed raw and my heart has been scrubbed with steel wire.

If you rise above the water of hate for a moment, I'll show you every mistake I ever made. I'll take your hand and let you feel the faults branded on the crook of my elbow, the places I've known where I've slipped, my blemishes harsh and hot blooded. I'll walk you slowly through each one, not turning away or wincing from where you've thrown them into full, uncompromising light.

And then, then I will sit silently and let you call me foolish, weak, broken.
But I will know and I won't bow my head in shame.
I know what I really am.