You have the right to your soft words. Your soft life. Her soft body that doesn’t cut you open at night. I’ll let you turn my sharp and bruise into a memory. Your soft head. Soft heart. Soft teeth. You didn’t even get a piece of me. I’ve scarred myself worse just breathing; just being. There is nothing soft about me – about my love – or my want – nothing soft about my hands that have dug myself out of more than one grave, bursting through the wet grass, stretching towards dark skies. I am not that kind. If she wants your soft, then want her back because my sharp and bruise needs more than that.