Soft

Your hair is so soft, says the hairdresser. Your skin is so soft, says the beautician. What products do you use? Your eyes are so soft, says a voice inside my head. Who has been looking at my eyes? Is it the same voice that talks to me when I feel sad? 

Soft. I say the word to myself, like a whisper. I try my hardest not to be soft. But people see through me. Mamma, your hands are so soft. But they are not, my darlings. They are old and dark and unkept. Ruined by the sun and cigarettes and denial. 

I don't want to be soft. My softness has caused me hurt. My heart is soft, that's why it keeps reaching out to people who flick it with a finger. Shoo, go away. We don't like your sweet words, your attempts to unrattle us, understand us, tear through our masks. 

Soft. I used to be soft, I thought it was something to be proud of. I'm not so sure anymore. My mind is hard, my lips are closed shut, like a frozen lake in winter. But you can still see through the ice and find my words underneath. 

My arms are soft. I always liked them. They now carry years of change. I always wanted to be stroked on my arms, as if for someone to say, lay down your weapons, the war is over. I will not hurt you, I know you crave kindness. 

But I do not let anyone stroke them. I do not want anyone to come closer. I don't want anyone to see how soft I am. But no, I am not. I am not soft. Beware of my courage, it is the hardest part of me. I have fought in wars you know nothing about. I'm a warrior, my resilience is as hard as a mountain. 

Sometimes the soft tears flow down from my soft eyes, as I sit alone in the grass, listening to a song that only my ears can hear, only my heart knows the pain of, and once they touch the hard ground, I become what I want to be. Hard to touch. A silent river under the earth.