Soft Edges, Hard Truths

The soft edges,
patience-thin,
played against
but too much give
to be felt

Over time, these soft edges have become more numerous. The amount of time I will allow myself to spend in circular arguments. My willingness to engage when it will make other tasks more difficult. It’s not about fear, but about consistency and patience. I become less willing to participate in benign but meaningless activity – and in doing so, I have directed my life to follow a set of rules…and if they are my rules (not guidelines, not character-drive foundations, but rules), so much the worse. Rules of convenience. It’s about the path of least resistance, a path lined on both sides by soft edges.

There is something to be said
for the growing of teeth
sharp enough
to pierce skin

I like my edges hard, sharp. I like to dance between them knowing that a single slip will draw blood. Sometimes I will press myself or my partner against these edges just to watch us bleed. I trace my scars to remember those times, because the memories living there are vivid; their scent is strong enough to be tasted even now – the impressions left important in their contrast against the black and white memories left over from everything else. They weren’t bad times, although there were days I hurt so much I wanted to find a cave dark enough to curl up in and forget; they weren’t good times, although there were nights of promises and flesh that I never wanted to end; they were real times, real in the way your first crush is real, real in the way your nightmares prove stronger than awakening, real in the way you want things so badly your need makes you foolish.

My favorite memories are fever-blurred,
as if I imagined them,
but I know
the
truth

Is that what it means to mature? To replace my hard edges with softer ones? Compromise myself into a form of life submission?

I need to find new edges – I am only willing to have this many soft edges (and this? The point where they impede my ability to feel.)