so who am i, then, to speak about softness. it's been years since i touched a blade like that, but i still wear the scars in the summer. i know i could get in my car and drive off the face of the map but instead i get in my car and i visit my friends. i could kill myself i suppose but how could i ever explain that absence to my dog, and besides - i haven't been to my own wedding yet.

all i know about softness i learned from the bottom of a sharp pit. there's a younger, hungry version of me, a growling tiger still unsated. every gentle thing is still alien to her. she doesn't understand the concept; it is abhorrent. she thinks it's boring. she thinks it's letting go. she snarls: i made a promise. we would rather burn out than go quiet, remember? i made a promise i would rip all the meaning from this life like a peach pit.

this is the meaning, beloved: today there are cherries waiting for me to eat them. i put my hand on warm moss while on the phone with shannon. i made a new matcha recipe today, and it's quite delicious. tomorrow i'm going to get in my car and instead of screaming or crashing it or disappearing, i am going to go visit my cousin.

in my youth i think i wanted to be loved like a bent needle - under the skin, permanent, an emotional scarification. i have been in the middle of broken glass my whole life. i think i replaced the concept of peace with the numb fear at the edge of a knife.

i know now i can only be loved as far as the sound travels, otherwise it's all just echo. i want to be loved like a purring cat, quiet and gentle. although she's still romanceable, i generally steer clear of blue-winged strife. she sits in the dark corners of my room, pouting, and i teach her how to do the laundry and get to work on time.