Not a very big one.
It is made small and huddles in the corner like a scared child. There are monsters approaching it from every angle, from every wall. And kindness cowers alone, small and glowing, but afraid.
The cruel mouths and hands of being horrible to myself reach out to claw at kindness.
I should nurture this kindness like watering a plant or caring for a child. Like it is a little lost thing that needs my help. I should help it to grow bigger and stronger and larger and wider, so it takes up the room, and the monsters shrink to the size of pin heads and deflate like old balloons.
Kindness is like the hope in Pandora’s box. All of the evil flies out and then it flutters up like a fragile butterfly.
I need to be a butterfly farmer, growing flowers and plants and cultivating a garden that the butterflies flock to so they dance in the air and land on the flowers and skip between the plants and there are hundreds of them fluttering against the blue of the sky.
Right now I am crushing the butterflies underfoot, under my hands, with every part of my body.
I would not really kill something so beautiful in reality, so why do I do it inside my head?
