It’s rare,

to take it off.

The confining straitjacket of control.

Control of your place, control of your reactions, control of your emotions.

So much control…

Until,

You don’t even know that you can still feel.

Then (for some reason), the armor comes off,

bit… by bit…

and you laugh, giggle, cry, rage, like a child,

The child who says thank you for the release,

and the child you thank for the memory of who you are.

Under the armor.