when i was younger i loved the blade and the hook and the tear of a tendon. for a long time i was feeding myself on pain alone. it felt like a needlepointed symmetry: internal anguish can be expressed in external injury. everything had to be hard and loud and fast and violent. i drove erratically and had rough sex with the wrong people and made terrible friends and let people feed from my bloodstream. the only way i knew how to handle the rot was with violence, to rip it out of me, to put my body down like a sick dog. in some mental quarry of self-hatred i'd try to blunt-force pickaxe out the misery from my brainstem; as if i could drown what was already underwater. i was perpetually disgusted by my own failure to comply. no matter how many bitemarks or burnt bridges or bloodstains or bruises or bad nights; i was still me. i was still hurting.
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.
i open the curtains. i want to let in the light.
