love me tender, love me soft
the joy is in the noticing.
how my voice, which once wore steel-tipped boots, now walks barefoot.
how I used to think strength was sharp, a thing with teeth. and how wrong I was.
somewhere along the way I stopped snapping. not all at once. not cleanly. more like…
a hard fruit ripening.
a stone eroding quietly under seafoam.
a scream swallowed mid-breath because I remembered, no one was listening,
and anyway, I deserved better than to be yelled at.
even by myself.
I used to gulp anger like medicine.
I thought it was fuel.
I thought being mean to myself was noble. Efficient. I thought it made me serious.
but off-late, in the mirror
I’ve been saying things I’ve never said before.
gentle things.
stupid things.
like “you look so pretty today,”
and “I love how your face crumples when you laugh,”
and “you are not broken, you’re just in between versions of yourself.”
(which maybe is the same thing.)
no one taught me how to speak to myself kindly.
mostly because I was never rude to myself in public.
I had to overhear it
in the wind,
in a poem,
in the pause before my friend replied,
in the way someone held their silence like a warm towel
and offered it to me instead of advice.
this softness is not accidental.
it’s a practice.
a muscle I keep forgetting I have, and then; slowly, rebuilding.
and maybe this is what becoming is:
learning not to flinch
when you see yourself clearly.
today I didn’t flinch.
I said,
oh, it’s you again.
and smiled.
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See you next Wednesday 🧡
So beautiful 🌸
I'm lost for words - the best.