Page 21 of Unclench Me Softly

send pics if any of them fight shirtless

I light a candle.

Then a second one.

Then I accidentally set the corner of my “Welcome to the Journey of Sacred Masculine Surrender” draft on fire and spend a solid thirty seconds slapping it with a silk scarf.

So.

That’s where we’re at.

I sit back on my cushion, legs crossed, laptop open, half a chocolate bar in my mouth, and absolutely no working brain cells. I am supposed to be crafting a powerful, life-changing opening speech for tomorrow’s first ritual: The Unclenching of the Jaw, the Fist, and the Ego.

Instead, I’m writing lines like:

“Sometimes, what you’re really holding onto… is grief in your butt.”

I stare at it, backspace, and start again.

“Welcome, sacred seekers. Here, we will learn to release the need to control, to posture, to resist. To unclench, fully. In body, in breath, in…”

…hands.

Oh no. I am not thinking about Seb’s hands again.

But now I am.

His fingers, thick and calloused and deliberate. Hands that say “I can build a shelter. Or take one apart slowly, while looking into your soul.”

I type:

“To surrender is not to collapse, but to be held.”

Then immediately scream into my scarf.

Because now I’m picturing Asher. Holding me. And whispering something devastating like “I read your energy like a book I wasn’t supposed to open, but I did anyway.”

No. No.

I slam the laptop shut like I’m sealing a portal, take a breath, and try again.

Pen. Paper. Analog. That’s what I need. I write:

“Release the jaw. Release the control. Release the idea that your worth is based on performance, aggression, or emotional shutdown. Also maybe don’t show up a day early and mess up my whole schedule, you beautiful feral demons.”

I circle the last part.

“That’s staying in,” I say out loud.

I sit back, shake out my arms, and try to channel whatever half-dead spirit guides I haven’t offended today.

“You are safe here. You are seen. You are not your paycheck, your posture, or your rage.”

I pause.

“Unless your name is Jax Riot, in which case you are rage in jeans and I need you to lower your voice and possibly your motorcycle.”

I write a new heading:

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