I don’t want to be feisty; I want to be soft.
I don’t want to be sassy, rye or sharp.
I don’t want to be bitter, and quick to defend.
What I want is to be soft around the edges, like an early-nineties Gaussian blur. Mellow and pink and lighter than air.
I’m fighting this right now – all of it. Fighting my descent into the uglier parts of me, and fighting the fight as well – knowing that all of those pointy, prickly, dark things are part of me too.
And I know that the fighting makes it darker, and sharper, and rougher around the edges. And that if I just roll with it, I’ll polish myself into a sand-tumbled piece of sea-glass. Clear and dusty and hidden among the rocks.