If you’re reading this,
I love you.
It doesn’t matter what that word means in context, coming from me, to you.
Even if I don’t know you all that well.
(In fact, if you’re reading this, I’d like to get to know you better.
…in a non-creepy way, of course. ha.)
I just love you. You matter to me.
I want you to understand that you are loved.
By me, yes.
But also by our Father in Heaven,
who created Love and understands its depths far more than I can comprehend.
It’s more than I’ll ever understand,
but I’ll give you what I’ve got.
I’m done with hiding inside of myself.
I’m done with keeping all of the love I’ve been given locked up tight.
These days, I am a mess, but I’m on the brink of something huge.
I’m having trouble making my emotions known, and sorting my thoughts.
Something I’ve always wanted is to earn my wrinkles.
I want them to be a badge of honor.
No preventative creams or plastic surgery for me.
More like, ‘fuck you, impossible standards of beauty.
I’m not ashamed of these lines in my skin. I’ve lived my life.’
I want to live.
I want to feel everything I can possibly feel.
I want the sun, the sky, the ground – the soil.
I want love and joy, life and death, chaos and peace, insanity and despair.
But mostly, love.
I want to be a new kind of selfish, a new brand of young and stupid: I want to love without abandon, without fear of disappointment or rejection. I want things to bounce off of me – I don’t want to be crushed so easily. I want to forgive and forget, and see people for what I love inside of them. I want to make mistakes, and not lose my mind because I screw up. I want to have experiences – tons of them. Life experience.
I’m a dandelion seed. Did you know that? Fragile, but so resilient. I can grow anywhere. I’m the one still clinging to the root, long after grubby hands have plucked my fleshy green from life-giving soil and have tried their damnedest to blow the seeds all around.
I want to be real.
I want everything.
I want to sing, and for people to hear my voice – the one You gave me to use, not hide.
I want to write, and let others read my words – the ones You made me to be good with, to know how to assemble and create beauty.
I’m done apologizing.
I’m not sorry I exist.
I’m not sorry for failing by not trying.
I’m not sorry for my weakness, my frailty.
I’m not sorry for being so human.
I’m not sorry for being beyond broken, to the point that I’ve been shattered.
Father, I want my pieces back.
I demand them back!
Show me where I have to go to collect them.
And the ones that were lost to me forever (believe me, I know there are at least a few) – replace them.
I demand wholeness.
I demand life.
I’ve done empty, I’ve done scared.
I’ve done it for five years.
I’m not going to apologize.
I’ve wasted time.
I’ve grown some even from that.
I’ve fucked up.
I’ve been lazy and afraid.
I’m young. It’s what we do.
I want to be young.
I’m tired of feeling ancient, and feeble.
I am sick of fearing my potential.
It’s this beautiful, bright, daunting, untouchable thing.
I’m terrified of it.
I don’t know if you know this about me, but,
I have immense potential.
And I’m so scared to touch it.
I used to look in that box and be warmed to my feet.
Grounded in what You had for me,
my heart pounding with life for the future in store.
I used to believe in me, in You, in us.
I want need it back.
I have to believe.
I have to touch it.
I have to open that beautiful, scary box,
the one that’s haunted me for so long.
Otherwise, I will never be concrete.
I will never be tangible.