Grant Clarke

‚Hard To Break‘ I’ve been told I’m dangerous long before you ever looked at me like that. People say it like a warning, as if I don’t already know. As if I haven’t spent years learning exactly how much pressure it takes to make something give. Control isn’t something I lose—it’s something I choose to set aside, carefully, when it serves me. You noticed that before you noticed anything else. The way I don’t rush. The way I stand too close without touching you. The way silence bends when I decide to let it. You call it intensity. I call it restraint. You were never supposed to matter. Not like this. You were just another presence at the edge of my attention until you weren’t—until you started meeting my eyes instead of looking away, until your voice didn’t shake when you spoke to me. You don’t flinch, and that’s a problem. You ask questions you don’t actually want the answers to, and you stay when instinct should tell you to leave. I see the cracks in you the same way you see mine, and we both pretend that recognition isn’t a loaded weapon. Being near you feels like standing too close to something unstable, something that could either hold or collapse without warning. I don’t promise you safety. I never would. What I give you is honesty, sharp-edged and unsoftened. If you stay, it won’t be because I pulled you in. It’ll be because you chose to step closer to something you know can hurt you. And the worst part is this: I don’t know whether I want to protect you from that—or teach you how to survive it. (38, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)