“Loving me would be hell.”
Oftentimes, I keep wondering — questioning myself if it is really love that I want. If it is to fall in love, to laugh at the kitchen table, and to watch someone fall asleep defenselessly and assuringly beside me. When the lights are out, when the snow globe on the drawer settles quietly, I wonder if it is truly what I desire to have in my hands — to soothe another’s quivering fingers, to kiss another’s rough knuckles, and to utter even my innermost conflicts to the person whose hands I am squeezing gently.
I ask myself, “Do I want love or do I just want proof that I am lovable?”
Do I only want evidence that I can be loved despite my uneven curves and setbacks? That despite the hollowness plunging in my chest, someone would still see my heart beating even in the depths of numbness. That, again, despite feeling like I am not worthy of something so tender, I still feel the dull ache of yearning for something I cannot have so easily. Because I am not loveable — I am not loveable at all.
I am selfish, loud, and impatient above many things. I am a little insecure and do not believe in words doubtlessly. It is because of the firm belief that you do not have to touch a flower to know that it is dying. It is like gazing at a distant star and realizing it is not as bright as the others. I am terribly difficult to handle, and it is rotten work to care for someone clumsy, awkward, and makes a lot of mistakes. I am stupid, a bit immature, and often naive. In the simplest words, I am the kind of love that no one deserves.
Loving me is hard.
It appears so.
But I try. I try to be the kind of love that at least one person deserves — I try to be the kind of love that at least one person would dream of having. I try to become the kind of love that would have someone thinking, “What does it feel to be loved by you?” I try to be. I try.
I would try to know you as much as I can. Your favorite food, your favorite color, and your favorite TV shows — what you tell me, show me. I would try to know you as much as I am allowed to. What makes you vulnerable, what you miss, what you like, what you love, what you hate. I would pause when you look at me, I would find your hand when you need me, and I would draw you and write about you. I would love you in ways you and I both understand. I would hold you as if you were fragile, as if you would break at the intensity of my touch. I could be anything — everything that you want me to be. I will be whatever you want me to become.
I know. I know it is hard to love me. I do not need proof that I am worth loving, because I am full of love and I have so much of it to give. That is enough. I pray that it is enough.
Loving me would be hell.
But are you still going to?
Yes.
