As much as I want to teach you, I also want to learn. There is so much you can show me:
- how to deflect cruel words
- how to wrap myself in thicker skin
- how to absorb criticism with grace
- how to swallow anger
- how to bring it back up again
- how to hurt, on purpose.
There is so much I admire. I see you with your game face on, morning noon night. I wonder if you ever sleep. I wonder if your Herculean strength will ever run out. How many hours are there in your day? You’re not like us.
Your brain doesn’t work like mine, I think. I see your thoughts like mini comets, zipping in swarms, back and forth in your skull, leaving trails of light behind. What do you do when it gets too crowded, too bright in there? They say the sun will implode soon.
You say you’re not hot tempered and nothing fazes you. Liar liar liar. But I admire your restraint. I sense your need to boil over, set fire to the city and black out the skyline. You cannot be larger than life, always.
But here’s what I wonder: why must you teach me sharp lessons? I thought love was like falling into each other softly, not smashing headfirst into steely concrete and splitting heads open. We’re bleeding all over the pavement, don’t you see?
Abrasive, difficult, hard-headed boy. Would I have it any other way?