I am an Artichoke

You say that you know me,
but what do you know?
you see the spiked bracelets
maybe you were here for the blue hair
or the pink, or the red, or the green and blonde.
you see the graffitied T-shirts and piercings and pins.

or maybe you see the words
poetry and stories,
all of which are based on true things,
but surrounded by fiction.
they appear to be sweet to the eye
yet are bitter underneath
because of past experiences
hidden beneath the scars of time

it’s possible you’ve heard my stories
long and winding with tangents galore,
like the country roads I never grew up with.
full of smiles and tears, sometimes both at the same time,
always told with the 20/20 perspective of hindsight.

through slow and careful work
you might have been able to
maneuver around the pointy thorns
that protect my inner self and extract
my unique essence.

and maybe, just maybe,
you’re one of the few who have gotten inside.
there’s one last obstacle before you do, though.
the pushing away
before the acceptance.
it’s the final test that’s hard to pass,
much like Odysseus trying to get home again.
but if you’ve made it that far,
past all of my defense mechanisms,
intended to protect me from harm,
you see the tender underside.
insecure, frightened, slightly neurotic.
you see past the façade,
past the mannerisms,
and have conquered my heart.

and perhaps, this is all news to you
and you can’t imagine what I’m talking about.
for you remain on the outside, looking in,
afraid of this scaly exterior.

for I am an artichoke,
and my look is worse than my bite,
if you bother to take the time to get in.