ORIGINS: We couldn’t help filling in the gaps. A quill here, a quill there, and there it was. A hedgehog that had just caught a cold, or maybe it was just an allergy.
I am not sad. I am not cold. It’s just that there are allergens in the air. You remind me of the rose-colored glasses I used to wear. But they broke into tears, and I discovered that I am allergic to hope. I wouldn’t survive another heartbreak. And that’s where my hedgehog comes in. It sneezes, blowing the quills far, far away, before the hopes I involuntarily pin on my heart can make it beat. But you were just an innocent bystander, and you didn’t deserve to be dragged into my comparisons. For that, I am sorry. You didn’t deserve those thorns. But maybe they will help you protect your rose.
The wind blew my tissue away, and my hedgehog decided to hold in his sneeze until he could bring it back to me. Is paper trail the word I am looking for? Probably not. But my hedgehog enjoyed his little quest. Tears may not be fire-breathing dragons, but they own the color red too. They leave it in their wake, like setting suns are wont to do, and if I am not careful, it could lead my heart to the darkest night. But I know that my hedgehog will bring that tissue back to me. He will burst into a thousand quills. And the little strawberry I have for a heart will remember all the reasons I have to smile. One, two, a thousand pricks. To remind my strawberry that there is still light.
I know that you didn’t mean to hurt me. Grief. Resentment. Malice. Your eyes were clear of those things. It was just an allergic reaction, and I would never blame you for something you have no say in. I should have known better than to live in a bubble. The happiness I clung to was too fragile. All of us are hedgehogs, all of us have quills. Your happiness and mine just happened to be incompatible. And I don’t blame you for bursting my bubble. It’s better that way. At least you spared me the pain of bursting it myself.
When I was a little hedgehog, I met a honeybee. I immediately felt bad for her, because she only had one stinger, whereas I had dozens of quills. She told me that she would die if she ever used her stinger, and my heart broke for her. I gave her a bunch of my quills right then and there. But she kept coming back for more, and somewhere along the way her words changed from thank you to hurry up. I caught a cold. And now I don’t feel bad anymore. Every time I sneeze, my quills fly away. And since I cannot give her something I no longer have, my heart keeps beating without a pang of guilt.