You say it half joking, half bitter:
I’m built for the fight,
that you only trust songs that sound like an argument with God,
movies that end in night.
You talk like wanting simple joy is some kind of betrayal
of the shit you’ve seen.
Like craving a cheesy flick disrespects every scared kid
that crossed the screen.
But then you light up
when someone’s dog waddles past in a tiny raincoat,
when kids laugh too hard at a stupid balloon.
You keep rewatching that one movie where nothing terrible happens,
just friends making pancakes under the moon.
You hide your crush on dumb pop songs
under playlists labeled ironic,
deny how hard your heart leans toward soft,
pretend you’re above all that happy crap
while secretly saving videos of old couples dancing slow.
You survived by expecting the worst,
by assuming every good thing had a trapdoor and a bill.
So now when something gentle appears
your first instinct is to push it away.
But the part of you that still wants
birthday candles and forehead kisses
keeps fighting against the will.
You imagine telling someone
I want flowers sometimes,
not as an apology for pain,
just because they’re pretty and smell that way.
Then you cringe at yourself,
call it corny, call it needy,
sip your drink and throw the fantasy away.
You picture a Sunday morning with no emergencies,
just coffee, cartoons, warm bodies,
nobody raising their voice.
It feels so far from your normal
that you treat it like sci-fi,
not like an actual possible choice.
Listen:
wanting gentleness does not erase your edge,
does not turn you into a soft-focus greeting card on a shelf.
It means the part of you that still believes in comfort
survived the onslaught,
refused to evacuate yourself.
That is not weakness.
That is rebellion in its own quiet way.
One day you might actually get some of it,
not all at once,
not in a perfect montage with all the strings.
Just in bits—
a friend who always turns up,
a lover who listens,
a day off with small bright things.
You’ll sit there in the middle of it,
waiting for the punchline,
for the floor to give way under the weight.
Then realize sometimes a good moment
is just a good moment,
not a setup,
not a twist of fate.
You do not have to earn them by bleeding first
in some costly test.
You can be haunted and hopeful,
fucked up and still craving the kind of soft
that lets your shoulders rest.
You’re not betraying your scars
when you reach for joy.
You’re honoring the part of you
that you never fully let begin.
One of these days
you’re going to let some of them in.