Poems by Rose

Sheathed
 
Do not mistake the sheath for lack of steel,
or quiet hands for hands that cannot wield.
I have simply lived long enough to know
not every slight deserves the blade I own.
 
There was a time I drew at every threat,
as though restraint were weakness or regret;
but even the sharpest steel grows thin
when every insult gets beneath the skin.
 
So now I keep the blade close to my side,
near enough to draw, but mine to decide.
I do not sharpen it on someone else’s shame,
or carve another down to make myself a name.
 
I have no hunger for the easy wound,
no need to make another kneel to hold my ground.
I know the weight of steel within my hand;
knowing what it can do has taught me where to stand.
 
Mercy is mine to give, not yours to spend,
and even patience has an edge, an end.
Do not mistake the hand that does not strike
for one that has forgotten how to fight.
 
A blade can rest and still remain a blade.
Its silence does not mean its edge has changed.
I can be gentle without becoming tame,
walk away without surrendering my name.
 
And should you cross the line I chose to keep,
do not mistake restraint for something weak.
I will unsheathe only as far as I must—
not out of vengeance, spite, or thirst for blood,
 
because kindness was never meant to be
a sheath someone else could fasten over me.
 
The sword is mine,
the hand that holds it mine,
and so is every moment I decline
 
to draw.
 
What makes me kind
is not that I cannot cut—
 
it is knowing exactly where the blade is,
exactly what it can do,
 
and choosing the sheath
 
until keeping it there
means abandoning myself.