I’m marvelling at your confidence, and wondering if, just maybe, it’s shot throu

I’m marvelling at your confidence, and wondering if, just maybe, it’s shot through with a bit of audacity. Maybe even a touch of hubris. But then which gods is your arrogance directed at. Dare I be that narcissistic? 

It’s not fool-hardy, though, never that. It’s the kind of confidence that you’ve earned, that you’ve spent time cultivating, growing and settling into. It’s comfortable, in the way that brash youth can’t quite get its head around. You’ve had time to feel out the edges, work your bum into the cushion, make an imprint. It’s yours, and maybe that’s the most important part of it. 

Your submission isn’t a quiet thing, something to be hidden under furtive glances and dipped heads. You wear it proudly, wrapped around you like armour, rather than hidden underneath your ribcage, tucked away where the heart of you is, so that, should it be found, you’ll go with it. 

I’m going to have to earn it, aren’t I? I’m going to have to show you that I can take it from you, just as you’re going to have to try and show me that you can keep a hold of it. It’s not going to be given freely, and we will fight over this, most precious of things. And you may even win a battle or two; I’m not infallible. 

But know this, pretty girl; I’ve got the mind of a general, and I will win this war.