Chapter 9
Guard of Sharp Leaves
Rough and pointed at the edge, so no harm can reach my ledge — shield my heart and little ones, sharp defense where love is done.
My edges grew pointed, rough, and strong,
where hurt had cut and taught me right from wrong.
They judge my sharpness as a cruel display —
not knowing I built them to keep harm away.
Like spiked green leaves around a golden heart,
I stand between my love and every part
of cold neglect, of words that bruise and break,
of those who take all I have to give and take.
My boundaries are not walls to shut them out,
but shields to keep what matters safe and stout.
Let others call me hard or distant, cold —
I guard the softest, dearest things I hold.
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