Rocks

i rest my hands on my hips
with the tips of my fingers flirting with
the opening of my pockets.
i hear waves, rather,
i want to hear waves crashing on the shore.
that would make this gray mist
appropriate.
this man, he sat across from me, with his little notepad.
inquisitive. about my future. about my secrets.
i don't want to tell you anything,
i don't want to give you any part of me.
but i will say: i just want to be okay.

my pockets give up and my hands take advantage.
i close my eyes and feel the cold, smooth rocks.
and what are rocks?
just the most powerful things we have at any given time.
from rocks you made the axe,
from rocks you made the wheel,
and from rocks i took all that i was away from you.

from rocks, we are safe from you.
from rocks, we reach our final destinations on our own accord.

but this boy?
he's different.
i'm not saying i'm okay yet,
but he's different.

i shove my hands deep
in my pockets, shrugging my shoulders
just enough to straighten my arms.
tense, i hold the thought:
women have rights now,
and the stones in my pockets
procure an entirely new meaning.