Your strength, dear daughter, scares them.

Your opinions are too much for them.

They don't understand your eclectic style.

They wish you had a filter on that mouth.

They try to shut you up but a finger over your lips cannot silence your ideals.

They want to contain your flames so that you don't burn the town down with them in it.

You are too bright for them; so bright it makes their eyes water when they stare too long.

The fight in you exhausts them; a pitbull whose jaw will not slacken.

They try to pour salt in your wounds.

You don't hide your scars.
You pull back the curtain and put a spotlight on them.

They are accessories. A feather boa billowing around your shoulders.
Yellow streamers in your hair.

Let them be scared, dear daughter.

Let them try to figure you out.

Let them try to tape you up in a box, label you, and ship you to Timbuktu.

It cannot be done.

You are a thousand sunrises behind closed eyelids--lights exploding and colors undulating like Caribbean waves.

You are thunder at midnight, cracking the walls, eroding foundations.

You are an arrow--sharp and precise--shot in a perfect, delicate arc.

Blowing kisses as you sail overhead.

This post originally appeared on the author's blog:

Faith in the Mess - Melissa Neeb, Writer