Close to you:

Laying with my body close to yours; I touch your warm, light skin.  Loving you with my delicate touch; a whisper of connection. 

Your stare – blank and cold. 

No longer the person you thought she was. Yes, you can watch me as i step out of this hard, icy clay mould.  Her fingers and limbs struggle to bend, brittle bones having being set for so long. 

I understand that you are confused.

Confused as to why I do not fit into a category. 

Confused as to why I do not let you win. 

Its not my style, its not me.  I have fought nearly everybody in my world so far.  Fought for my freedom. Fought to be myself.  Fought to conceal weakness.  I am not going to give that up for you, or even to be with you.  I don’t want to fight you.  Not now.  Not ever.    

I will never be moulded; you will never succeed.  I am no object of perfection.  I am better; I am human.