Ah. I hate love.
I mean, I love love. I hate the bitter edge of rejection. I hate the grinding pain of being left behind and being unworthy and forgotten. I hate the rubix cube of "who am I without you, with you, to you?" I hate being told I am no one without someone else.
I am not a commodity. Or a toy. I am also not here to solve all of your problems. I cannot erase your pain or your bad experiences.
The right person can fix me.
No, they cannot.
If you are lonely, if you are sad, if you are afraid, that is not my fault. I can never take those things away. Maybe I can ease the pain for a night. But I can never make you whole. Only you can choose how you will heal.
I am not perfect, and I don't expect you to be, because we are both human. I wish the world would let us accept that.
Men deserve to cry without feeling weak. Women deserve to cry without feeling like they're crazy. I cannot believe that, over thousands of years of humanity, we still have not normalized emotion. Maybe because we don't always understand it.
Oh, can you imagine a person ready to meet you where you are? Someone who presses their thumb into the wrinkles of your palm to feel your imperfection, to trace the scars time has etched into your skin. Who likes the veins in your feet, the soft skin around your waist. Who admires your organic self as we admire a leaf, a mountain, or a galaxy. Who turns over your thoughts like pebbles, with a soft, perceptive touch. You are both imperfect, and that is acceptable. You rest together in the fullness of your humanity, and you understand that time is eating you alive.
