A woman is not written in braille, you don’t have to touch her to know her.
I heard once that real love doesn’t ask what is in it for me; it just gives unconditionally. It just tries to take the weight out of somebody else’s pack, lessen his load, and if it gets reciprocated, that’s great, but that isn’t what you did it for.
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I was 19 when I finally stopped opening the door for unrequited love. I was 20 when I first learned that courage tasted like bitter wine and metal. Like blood and honey. When I told you I loved you, I screamed it. I let it rip its way out of my throat, and it felt so good that I cried. The other day, you walked by me with your friends and I could feel the pity in your stare. Don’t you do that. Don’t you look at what I had for you and call it weak. Not when you were the one afraid of it. I stood there with my hands open, my mouth bruised tender with supplication. Don’t you dare treat me like a victim of my own emotions, like being moved to my knees by love was a mistake that I regret. I will go to my grave with the memory of the bravery in my bones. I am not ashamed of any of it. Not the closed door in my face or the static silence of my phone for weeks after. I was not afraid. I am still not afraid. I will never be afraid again. Bring in the beasts with teeth like tree branches. Bring in all the men who will never love me. Bring in the monsters with faces carved out of stone. I am not afraid. They can eat me alive. I am not afraid. I will cut my way out of their bellies. I am not afraid. Never again.
Someday someone is going to look at you with a light in their eyes you’ve never seen, they’ll look at you like you’re everything they’ve been looking for their entire lives. Wait for it.