I was in her arms and she was in mine. It had been a long day and we laid in the bed she built with content in our chests. There was rain dribbling on our bedroom window, our cat stretched beside it, our dog at her feet. I breathed in the aroma of happiness and exhaled it back into the world. I couldn’t hold onto it.

The peace burned my throat and I felt it lodge in my lungs. I didn’t fret, I already knew why. I had spent 25 years with myself and by now I knew the signs of softness and I had learned long ago that I didn’t have it. I told her that when she first asked me to move in with her. I let her know that at my core I was a tool. Hard, and not mailable and made of kindness like her. I was rough to the touch and I couldn’t hold on to happiness as far as I could throw it because truthfully joy had never ran through my blood like it belonged there. At least not until her. She helped me.

After a while I learned to have patience, she taught me to be gentle and not just fire and anger. The farm animals used to avoid me, they don’t anymore. It feels weird to be so different, good too, and at times I miss the warmth. The rage coddled me, kept me safe. I feel vulnerable now, exposed and weak, but i don’t want to go back. I guess I’m hopeful. Perhaps this is what it means to be human. Maybe this is how I become more than a tool.

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Announcements: Finals are here so no updates until these tests are over. Posts will resume after December 17th, Thank y’all for being here and happy holidays!