I am the mouse weary of the fat cat and the child that eats cookies in the closet. I tip-toe on your word's current, and my mood changes when the tone of your voice hardens from sap to wood. I agree and forgive-agree and forgive. You love this pattern I have taken on recently. After we fight, you are the comforter that has the power to nurture my bleeding wrists, to untie the sailor's knot driven deep into my intestines. The confident one...the sleep insomia and the fear of batching it-the shap and sole stag-doesn't wear you out, my lovely independence.