You Used to be So Soft

  You understand you will never achieve peace with cruelty. You have lived by it, you have cried while watching painful flashes of war on TV. You have preached it to those around you.

   But you bought a pocket knife for the first time at a tender age of sixteen, and yes, I said tender because even though the other kids have their first pocket knife at a much younger age, they owned one because they grew up on a farm and needed it for chores, or to prove their masculinity - whatever that means. You bought a knife as a weapon after too many incidents of letting weapons disguised as people through your door. (You bought a lock, too, and installed them on all but one door. I like to believe you still have that trusting child inside of you, pleading to keep at least one door without a lock; just in case. Just in case of what? Sometimes I wonder if you like being hurt.)

   You never even liked knives. Do you remember being young and soft, do you remember using butter knives instead of the proper knives simply because butter knives were safer?

You hid that pocket knife in the same box your seashell necklace came in. You would take it out at night to gently run you fingers across the blade. It felt exciting before it felt shameful.

What happened to your morals? Who are you becoming now? None of us can answer that, not even you. How—why—did you let this happen? You used to be so soft, so nice. People would hit you and then utter those meaningless words: 'I’m sorry.' But it didn’t matter, you still bought them a blizzard from Dairy Queen right after.

   But now you’ve learned how to punch back and your knuckles are bruised. Now the glass you hurled at the hardwood floor is shattered. Now there’s a piece of it slicing your arm. You will not let anyone break your heart, so you break it yourself. They stitched you up and you ripped them out.

   “I can heal my own damn self,” you spewed your words at the nurses who wanted nothing more than to save your tragic soul. “I’m brave,” you reminded them. Honey, didn’t anyone tell you there’s much more bravery in being soft? You say you’re a survivor. It's written all over your body. What you don’t tell them is what you did to survive.

   You understand hate doesn’t drive out hate. You have lived by it, you have cried while sitting at your computer seeing a person be harassed and you have cried while watching them torment back. You have preached it to those around you.

   But you took self defense classes for the first time not long after you bought that knife. Like the other students, you were taking them for the class’s purpose. But you mostly you were taking them because you wanted people to be afraid of hurting you. You no longer strive to be the kindest person in the room. Now when a boy calls you ‘small’ or ‘cute,’ you slam them against the wall and laugh as you swear, “goddamn right you should be scared of me.”

   Now you know how to break an arm in one move. Now you know how to kick their knees in so they bend the wrong way. Now you know where to hit to knock them off balance. Now you know where to punch to make them double over. Now you know which crevice of the neck to dig your fingers into. Now you wear those heels even when you don’t have to look professional just so you can have something that can cause pain. (As if the pocket knife in your purse isn’t enough. As if that same purse you carry around because it also can be used as a weapon isn’t enough. Just in case, the small child squeaks inside. Sometimes I wonder if you enjoy hurting people.)

   You have experienced the taste of dirt in your mouth and pain in your lungs so often you eventually coughed it out and bottled it up. You were saving it for the next person that dared step on you. You were waiting to shove it down their throat. A taste of their own medicine, you promised to yourself.

   You understand violence is not the answer. You have lived by it, you have cried while hearing yet another victim’s tragic story. You have preached it to those around you.

   But you learned how to shoot a gun for the first time not long after you took those lessons. A lot of the other kids knew how to shoot a gun when they were much younger, but that was because they went hunting or they were, once again, trying to prove their masculinity. I still don’t know what that means. You learned how to shoot a gun as a weapon and I like to believe you can still hear the child inside of you quoting Malala. But it didn’t matter, none of it did. Not even the fact that being around a gun previously gave you an anxiety attack. You have taught yourself how to turn off your feelings. No one can hurt you but no one can love you either.

No one expects you to be soft anymore but no one could have predicted this. Not from you. Not from someone so soft, so gentle, so quiet. What they don’t know is you pretend not to care. That you go home each night you hurt someone and you cry yourself to sleep. You’re not sure if you’re dangerous or if you’re scared of becoming dangerous.

Well,

You are,

You are,

And

You are.