Stay soft or shatter.

Remembering what grief taught me.

How desperately I am called to softness. To the gentle fragrance of pink flowers. How desperately averse to senseless violence, to violations of purity and innocence. Hold me, please, I can't stand it. I am soft. I am soft. I am softer for having been loved. It takes a village to bring me all the pillows and blankets and warm peach tea in the cup that fits the curvature of my long hands. Click click click my moonstone rings against the porcelain. It would shatter if dropped. I would say the same of myself, except soft things don't shatter. And for that reason, I will call it strength.

2.15.23.