He is stronger than I ever knew,
Always holding me up,
Never stopping short.
When I was younger,
He would bend for me.
Taking in my childish desires,
Letting me flee.
As I got older,
I wanted to see;
So he carried me up,
Making me stand on my own two feet.
Now he is scarred with my mistakes,
Taking in each blow I took.
When I was sad,
I would clutch him to my chest.
He hid my little body,
With his immense mass.
Brushing my lips on him slightly,
Feeling the rough skin.
He is afraid to be seen,
Because of that skin;
Twisted and folded.
Bruised and dark.
He is feminine when it comes to appearances,
Masculine when it comes to power.
He has made me proud,
Always walking forward.
Never behind.
He never turned around,
Or broke down.
But eventually I will be too old,
And he will grow weary of holding me up.
My strong and scarred knees will finally give out,
Tired of being so tough.