Woman

I don't claim to be pure.

I'm adulterated with griefs and sin,

Stained with all the colours of emotion.

Do not say I'm naive.

I will give you a hand when you need it,

And push you off a cliff lest you hurt me.

Don't just call me sweet.

I'd rather you acknowledge my wit

Than reduce me to a sugary epithet.

Do not think me weak,

I just smiled through the storms,

never having to reveal my strength.

Don't call me an angel,

I can save the world,

Only once I'm done saving myself.

Let me baptize myself.

But If ever you wish to christen me at all,

Call me a Survivor.