I am small.
Petty. Insignificant.
My words will spark no fires,
my pen no wars.

My beauty
(if you can call it that)
would not even launch a canoe,
let alone a thousand ships.
Armies of leather-clad men
with angry wives
will not fight to win me home.

I am no saint.
I do not leave sweetness and light
wherever I go.
In fact I delight
in causing trouble. Swearing,
being angry.
And Doing the Wrong Thing.

I will not be remembered
for my wit
or my intellect
or my abilities at - whatever.
Sister, lover, friend.
I am nothing
beyond the ordinary.

I am not
a once-in-a-lifetime find.
Not a woman who breaks hearts
with a single glance.
I will cause
no heartbreak,
no sleepless nights.
Even if I have had
my own fair share of those.

I am the receiver
not the cause
of mortal blows.

There is no spark of brilliance
in these eyes.
In fact, there is nothing
nothing at all remarkable
about me,
in any way.

And that is wonderful.