Warning Label

Please understand that I have told you my story,
and my insecurities,
only asking for understanding in return.
I want you to understand
who I was, what I am, and what I want to be,
and why I am the way I am today.

No, I don’t want you to beat his ass, and,
for god's sake, keep your apologies to yourself—
you didn’t do anything.
I didn’t tell you my story, because I want to be babied,
or looked at with sad eyes,
or treated any differently.

See, my story is kind of a warning label.
Where some girls come in cute little pink boxes,
all posh, clean, spoiled, and giggly,
some come in beat up boxes,
proving to be a little rougher, and tougher than you,
and some of us—
too many it seems—
come in plain, brown boxes that seem indifferent to the world.

You will find on many of these boxes—
if explored thoroughly enough—a warning label.

Approach with caution, and don’t yell.
Talk softly, so as not to frighten.
Don’t ask too many questions, she might clam up,
but let her oniony layers
be peeled back with soft touches.

Approach with caution,
speak softly so as not to frighten.
Understand this plain, brown box
hides bruises, and scars you cannot see.
Understand that a storm the weatherman couldn’t even predict
may be unleashed without warning.

Approach with caution, and know
I’m not sorry that I’m so goddamned complicated.
I fought to get to where I am,
and I won’t back down.
The only time you’ll hear me apologize for this is to say
I’m sorry you can’t handle me, goodbye.