Feel The Horns

What if I were the quiet one.

Imagine I didn’t talk with my hands,

or tend to get on my soapbox,

A tea drinker,

a plant eater,

would you still love me?

Would I still love  myself?

How would I feel if you let loose a sudden torrent of angry rhetoric,

and waved your arms with Hitler-like fury?

Telling me our bodies were not meant to be tombs,

and tea is good for me,

and I should drink it more often especially since the coffee is so terrible for my already elevated blood pressure.

Would I still love you,

would I think you adorable,

would I be able to smile at your tirade,

as you do so often at mine?

But it is too late,

I realize I have waved the red flag at my gentle sleeping bull,

and I have no choice but to flee,

or feel the horns.

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