The girl with a girl's tender heart

She is not malicious. She is not calculating, she is not manipulative. She is not unreasonable. She is not making things up. She is not crying because she is trying to make you feel bad, she is crying because she feels bad.

Look at her. She looks like a girl. A woman, but we call ourselves girls. A mother. She is hard as iron, tough as nails. She endures like a mesa, bends like a fir in strong winds, stands upright after the storm. She is soft; she has curves, warm breasts, smooth arms, a nape on her neck that is made to be nuzzled. She is pretty. She has lips for kissing, eyes that can call for silence or snap and rage or fill with tears.

And she cries. A lot. More than she thinks she cries, because girls are made for crying. Crying and loving and holding people. And her heart is a soft, soft tender girl's heart. As strong as she is, as tough as she is, her hard hard heart softens at a moment's notice, and lets in the biggest baddest wolves as long as they talk gentle, move slow, and tell her the right stories. Because girls aren't made to be suspicious, aren't wagers of war or hostage negotiators. And it's too bad, because the hostages are our own hearts, our very tender not-lying-when-they-cry hearts.

Girls are amazing. There is no code; we are deceptively simple. We will tell you, in plain simple words, what we want. Love me. Be there when you say you're going to be there. Tell me what you want from me. If you listen, you can hear it. Don't complicate us; we aren't speaking in tongues. Don't pretend you don't understand. Don't pretend you never heard us. Just listen.

Just listen, and remember that inside the girl you are looking at is a girl's tender heart. Try not to hurt it. And when you have it, remember that she isn't very good at guarding her heart, so that will be up to you. That's a thing a man is good at.