Softness

There is a softness inside me that I wish I could share with the world. But I learned very early on that softness is an open door for those who want to come in and wreak havoc on my soul.

One time, I was extra soft. I showed someone the softness of my most sacred space… the bright colors of my blankets, my soft pillows, even my favorite teddy bear. I even let them see my complex nature hidden behind my soft curls, my soft lips, and my once-soft hands, now roughened by life.

They came in and knocked down walls, rearranged the furniture, and told me things about myself… that I wasn’t good enough, that I was not good enough.

Suddenly, a cascading wave of blackness came tumbling down onto my soft world…a world full of peonies, paper flowers, kittens, and soft voices…now inundated with peril, unease, and unworthiness.

I felt like I was being strangled. My softness was being ripped away from me, and I held onto it so tightly that my nails started to break and bleed. I held with all my might, fell to my knees, and was dragged across the floor, hoping my softness couldn’t be taken from me —stolen—as this person continued to destroy the little softness I had left, the softness I’d hidden from the world.

I trusted them when I shouldn’t. They were very good with their words, and their words felt soft and disarming…but they weren’t. They were a Trojan horse into my heart and soul.

I fought hard to eliminate the threat, to push it out, close the door, grow the vines, grow the walls, and repair what was left of my world.

And when I turned around, all I saw was brokenness. I had to put my pillows back on the bed. I had to put my sheets away. For some time, I laid in the fetal position in the middle of my bed for nights on end while I healed and repaired the little softness I had left.

Oh, how I wish I could be fully soft in this world…but being soft in this world would get me killed by the hands of men. They circle around me like sharks, the way they circle all women, waiting for one droplet of blood so they can pounce.

I used to not understand why they would do that. I used to not understand their purpose. But men who lack purpose, who lack identity, who are too afraid to feel or explore their own softness…they come for ours.

I used to be a very, very soft girl. And now I am very hard.

My softness lies dormant, hidden, kept away from the world. I fantasize about it every day.

Secretly, I hide behind my walls, and inside them, I am soft. Outwardly, I build empires, burn bridges, and fight my way through life until it’s safe to be soft again.

For those who listen between the lines.

Elaine Degro