I am weak in his eyes. He can't understand how I can cry away my distress, and emerge from the tears full of life; how I can wipe away the turmoil and leave a clear mind in its place. I am too confusing; too contradictory. He cannot predict my mind - there is no certainty within the wilderness. I will feel the deepest empathy with those who struggle, yet know when enough is enough and walk away from those who hurt me. I can scream and shout when cornered, be a tumultuous storm of rage when provoked, yet be soft and gentle, loving and warm, kind and safe. I am the quiet and calm in the eye of my storm, still enough that a butterfly will land on my outstretched hand, safe in its assumption that I will not squash its fragile wings. He doesn't want the uncertainty. He wants one or the other, one easy to follow direction. One size fits all... A female version of himself. I am not him. I am fire, rage, love, passion, fear, pain, earth, mother, kindness, the lightning bolts through the storm, and the calm seas afterwards. I am a bursting rainbow soul of life, and all that it embodies. And yet, that butterfly still sits on my hand.