Hearts are fragile objects. I don’t know why they don’t come to earth birthed in bubble wrap, secured in styrofoam. Sometimes I worry mine will slip through the crevices of my rib cage and shatter. We need to be more gentle.
I will continue to outgrow people. Even if at one point their arms were perfect winter sweaters, a home to nuzzle up in safety, no fabric lasts forever. It will rip and stain and shrink in the wash. It’s okay to part ways with loose threads.
I am forgiven.
It is our duty to love as much as possible, as often as possible, as deeply as possible. We wake up. We stretch, roll out of bed, find matching socks with sleepy eyes. One day we won’t. Shouldn’t that mean something?
My love is not a liability. Neither is my heart a charity case, a burden, a broken back. I do not have to apologize for my own electricity.
Some days, it is okay to be distant from the world. Forget the breakfast, the meetings, the grocery list of obligations. Tuck back in. Cover your head. Sleep until tomorrow.
Cry when you can. Over broken hearts. Over moments of ecstasy. A good sob into a pillow can sometimes be more consolation than any collection of words can allow for.
One day, it won’t hurt as much.
It doesn’t matter what the kids from high school think. They’re kids. They probably always will be.
It actually doesn’t matter what anyone thinks. At the end of the day, we are all made of the same chemicals, atoms, strings of protein and information. We are all dust and struggle, fear and insecurity.
I am enough. Even when sitting in the bathtub, feeling anything but clean enough. Even when surrounded by a thousand other beating hearts, feeling anything but seen enough. Even when I am not, I am still.
I am not a doormat for you to wipe your feet and leave when things get hard. Clean your soles somewhere else. You are not invited here.
Alone does not always mean lonely. There is power to solitude, to sitting and letting your mind entangle, new wind blowing through old air.
Think about it. Even bad moments never happen twice. Cherish the trauma anyway. You are allowed to find beauty in hurting.
Before you hand out a second chance without considering the consequences, think again. Dwell on it. Is the restart button on healing worth pressing?
You are allowed to embrace your power. The cosmic stare, the aura, the explosions. You are allowed to obliterate.
Every morning, we are new.
Anything can be an accomplishment. Making the bed. Contemplation over coffee. Deciding to show up even though you’d rather wallow around the house like a sick ghost. Show up anyway. Walking through that door is a celebration.
I am loved. Not by the person I swore would love me forever, not by an indecisive boy, a back-talking friend, a moment in time. No.
I am made of love past comprehension.
No descriptions, poems, or quantities.
I am infinitely my own.