𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝

They say be gentle,

like it’s a thing you can hold in your palm

and not crush by accident.

*

Like it isn’t the tremble in your voice

when you tell someone I forgive you

and mean it halfway,

with teeth clenched

and a bruise forming under the memory.

*

Gentle gets mistaken for softness -

pillows, petals, lullabies -

but I’ve seen gentle in the hands

of a man holding a gun he doesn’t want to fire,

in the eyes of a girl

who’s learned to smile just enough

to not provoke anything louder than silence.

*

It’s the quiet step between you and the ledge,

the pause where no could still be said,

the breath before a scream,

the touch that doesn’t leave a mark

but still shifts your spine

out of place.

*

We romanticize it -

hang it up in cursive on walls,

embroider it into throw pillows,

whisper it like a prayer

we forgot the meaning of.

*

But gentleness?

It’s the last light

before the world closes its eyes.

It’s the cracked cup

still being used

because no one can bear

to throw it away.

*

It’s not weakness.

It’s restraint.

It’s choosing to open your hands

even when you were taught

how to make fists.

*

And maybe that’s the darkest thing of all -

how much effort it takes

to be kind,

when no one ever was to you.

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