Sand is Stone

People say I’m mean.

My mother, my siblings. My father doesn’t know me well enough to.

My most recent boss said such, too.

I coughed it away in some semblance of a laugh.

Me? Mean? No.

I wanted to date someone mean when I was younger. Tall dark and handsome.

So it happens I’ve become that mean individual. I hear myself as I speak, and flinch at its vitrolity. I can’t stop it though.

So much scar tissue will build a surface, no?

Strong. Like the barracks of a castle. Formidable with heads on picks.

But when I am such there is an issue. Because I’m not a building with prosecutors leading the charge behind it.

But aren’t I?

After all, sand- beautiful and golden, was once jagged rock, cast aside and thoughtless. If it is ground up enough, you get what falls to butter between your fingers.

Hot when you so need it to be, to keep you from feeling awkward,

moldable otherwise.

So what if I am opposite? Soft and then hard?