'You're so soft,' they tell me. 'What happened to you?' It's not a good thing. Or at least, they don't want me to think it is.
There is power in being soft. In adapting to the weather, in swaying gently in the storm instead of breaking at the middle, crippled in the name of stubbornness.
No, I am tired of standing tall with my chin held high, a tight grip on my sword, my armor weighing me down. Who am I watching out for? What is there to fight?
No, I would rather sink, gently, into the warm waters of his arms and the cool comfort of his palms, weightless as his tide rocks me to sleep and tells me it's okay to rest.
'You're so soft,' they tell me. They sneer, gawk, laugh at my bare, bruised shins and shaky, weaponless hands.
'Love made you weak,' they warn, 'Love will make you sick.'
And yes, perhaps it did. And sure, it will eventually. But I'd rather know what it feels like to love, to be loved, than die with spite in my hair and smoke in my lungs. I'd rather hold him softly than fight to protect what is already his to keep.

















