This skin does not have words written on it.

So you mustn’t call it by the name you write on your own backs.

I am this thing I call myself.

For I am not the call of your waitress,

nor the works of a machinery object.

I am not what drags along the side road in despair for your undergarments.

Nor am I the one who’s lips smother on the toes of a dirty coward.

Look at me and I guarantee you still would not see how I don’t need you to need me.

I have my stride but all you have is your pride.

I can step on that too.

You may think I don’t know you,

Or have the voice on how to speak,

But I know for one thing,

I am not weak.