My Cardboard Balcony

Flesh Wound by Belinda Roddie I swung back with my father's sword, trying to slash the sinew in his exposed forearm, waiting for the opposing blade to clatter in a cacophonous defeat on the concrete. I barely scratched him, yet somehow he recoiled, as if he had never felt pain before, let alone pain dealt to him by a warrior's daughter. As he ran, I thought I saw his eyes well up. Men do not handle rivalry on the battlefield very well.

How long do feelings have to be repressed before they explode outward in a perfect nova of color, before settling into the dusty white dwarf it was meant to become, when you're no longer crying about cuddling in a bed with someone who has lips as soft as yours without stubble on a chiseled jawline? And how long do they expect you to relax after just a hole has been drilled into your chest, so that all of your truths ooze out in a sickly golden oil for them to bottle up or stain their boots with as they attempt to stomp away your honesty?