Thank you, for loving me. Thank you for opening up my mind’s eye to the possibility that I can be loved. That there is so much lovable light inside me worthy of the admiration that earnestly says and lives out louder: I. Love. You.
And, yes, I should have known it before: That I am deserving of the love that listens, makes time, and hold hands. The love that both apologizes and forgives. The love that takes care of me when I am sick and prays for me to be well.
So maybe, just maybe, I am capable of loving me as well as you love me. Maybe I am beautiful. And brilliant. Maybe there is nothing so tragically wrong with me, after all. Nothing so outside the realm of human imperfection that is irredeemable.
So maybe, because you’ve shown me how, I can be soft with me, for once. Maybe I can gently wipe my own tears, pour me my own glass of water and tuck myself to sleep. Maybe I can tune on my favorite song and slow dance my own sorrow away.
I wish I knew all this before, but now that I know, I will accept nothing less than this love. Not from myself, or anyone else. So thank you. For loving me.