Every relationship lately feels like a game of emotional-pencil-fight. I take what I fundamentally am’ and hold it between my hands. *whack* you take a nice hearty swing. Then you do the same, grasping your smooth polished veneer, pulled taught’ over your tender timber and graphite bones. I lean in close and I take a big overhead chop. *whack* I just can’t settle without testing your mettle.
Because I’m terrified that I’ll lash my hobbled-heart to you, and somewhere down the line you’ll need to shoulder some of my burden I’ll discover you crumble under the weight of my uneasy gait. So instead I instigate– I set a fire to see how quickly you immolate. Wait! stop drop and roll, and soldier-crawl to the nearest exits. Do you touch the handles for heat, or do you kick down doors and hopefully… escape? How long can you hold your breath? How well do you perform under duress? These are things I need to know.
I am the Fire-Starting-Pencil-fighting-Super-Saiyan. Each encounter leaving me a little more battered, but a little more true. A little less prim-and-polish-“yellow #2” and a bit more wood and grit. But if you get to the core of things, I promise you’ll see what makes me write. And I’ll scribble both our names and circle them a thousand times. I am the Fire-Starting-Pencil-fighting-Super-Saiyan. But clearly there’s nothing super about me.
Except maybe my hair.
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