strong justwrite

I am not strong. I'm a newspaper discarded in the rain, tearing each time the wind touches me. I am sandstone, ground to dust, scattered, ground beneath your feet. I'm a shallow puddle steaming at midday, almost gone. You tell me I am strong. I want to show you how easily I bruise, shed my smile so you can see how hollow I am, that the skin around my eyes is decaying. I want to scream, tear open my ribcage and show you the ink drying on my brittle bones, the ashes in my stomach that burn my throat like ocean water when you tell me that I'm strong. Not strong enough. An infant holding up the eastern states, about to be crushed, not strong enough. A moth caught at sunset, wings rubbed bare, left on a porch railing unable to fly, waiting for the birds to wake up. I want to be a hermit crab, to curl up against the cool curved back of a seashell, hold my claw across my face and dare you to pry me out. But I am clawless, without a shell, lying open and exposed on the sand as they gather around me, licking their lips, pondering which beer would taste best with me, their eyes piercing me, tiny and trembling, unable to run or fight, weak.