Think of me like a blade. Functional, sharp. In romance, I am no less the blade. Merely sheathed. In true friendship, the blade is bare but held horizontal to my body. Held loosely but ready. Each degree down the ladder changes the orientation of the blade and grip of same. Until, against enemies, the blade is unseen. Unnoticed until it slips under the ribcage.

This is how I think of myself. It is a useful metaphor. It keeps me mindful of the things I am capable of. That if I falter, I can do unwitting damage. That despite how I may seem or project, that is what I am. Who I am. As I always say, I am the weapon, every thing else is just a tool.

I am a blade bared.