You push me,

shout at me,

pull me around

like I exist as a form of playdough;

one which molds at your touch,

like you are my creator,

and I, just your masterpiece.

Like I am an object,

a toy,

some plastic, a bit of wire.

Even if that may be,

even if you reduce me to

be held in the eyes of a child,

is that all I am?

Am I not more?

Does a child not feel?

Not love?

Not play?

How is a child's love any less than yours?

How am I any less worthy?

I am not a ball of dough.

I am not to be rolled around.

To be pushed;

to be shoved.

I will not let your words penetrate me.

I will stay guarded;

strong.

I will not unravel under the thread of your fingertips;

I will only be picked apart by my own.

Resilient.

Like the last breath of a flickering bulb,

those sweet sorrow seconds of a candle

right before the flame dies down.

I am a flame, and I will be fire,

and I will not be stopped.