Be careful with your sharp edges.
The more time that goes on, the more exposed to them I become.
Eventually they’ll cut me. I’ll bleed profusely and our love will be fatally wounded, draining away more quickly that either of us could’ve imagined.
You’ve begun to bump into me with your not-so-blunt edges, and as they grate against me I hold my breath and let my irritation pass. In the moment, I give you the benefit of the doubt: you did not mean to nick me with your tone, your casual judgments, or your quick criticisms.
Over time as the subtle wounds I’ve accumulated add up, you become more brazen, uninhibited by what appears to be my nonreactive state, and your edges sharpen.
I wonder how many times you’ve been here. I wonder how much shame resides behind your walls. How much you’ve forgiven yourself for the things in you that accidentally or perhaps intentionally harmed others.
I could answer these questions myself, but the truth is I already have and that’s all that really matters.
Please remember, I am not your whetstone.
