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What a fight we had. I turned away and you pulled. I pushed and you shoved back, twice as hard. Neither gave up.

Hope, so gallant and disingenuous, I thought the worst of you. Villainous enchantress, the spells you carelessly cast. I understood these: The tired breast and the child’s ceaseless hunger. The brook’s uninformed search for its current. The incoherent thought longing for coherence. The letters that scramble together, over and over again, into imperfect words.

I was afraid for so very long, and fighting you hurt like hell.

In the arms of others, ethereal and flimsy, false. But now, in my hands, blameless and guileless, fragile and beautiful, perfect, sharp and enticing.