I get softer every year.
I slow dance and drink sparkling lemonade. I laugh, forget to write poetry, go on long drives. Sometimes I still wish I was harder — stone or steel — but I remain sweet, all sugar and honey.
I was always too good at believing in men, at believing in love and forgiveness. I was always too good at letting myself get hurt because I thought I knew someone better.
And summer comes, and it’s easier to cry — not because I’m sadder, but because I’m happier. Because I know I can’t change this. Because my roots are immovable and filled with optimism, honesty, and warmth.
I may not be the one who gets to keep you, but I will always be the one who has the most of you. Because no one’s arms will ever be as wide open as mine.
God damn it, I get softer every year.