To Be Vulnerably Honest


My first thought, my first candid thought was ‘I hope this isn’t going to be a mess.’ ‘I had hoped I didn’t make a mess of things.’ Out of all my habits, my tiny mannerisms, my solemn recluse, and all the rules I enforce on myself about being a lady, I could not have accounted for meeting you. I suppose falling for someone isn’t really as organized as I deemed it to be. Even fairy tales are often a mess of things.

My quest was perfection. My resolve was finding ‘the one’. At least it stayed that way when I turned 18. However, the more I saw the world for what it truly was – the more I peeled away these predilections. The ideals faded away like a wisp of smoke, it was so purely simple. I shed it all off like some old skin and I grew into the new one, almost as if mechanically.

I liked to think I did it because I was rational, because I was smart – and smart girls know better. Elegant girls, ladies, classy women, they don’t throw themselves at the next eligible bachelor who comes sweeping them off their feet. Yes, smart girls know better and I wanted to stay on my feet for as long as I could. Only it wasn’t rationality, it was self-preservation.

I guarded my heart furiously.

No one told me to. No one asked me to. I just did. My heart was never worn on my sleeve, there was never a candid picture of it. For I knew, that once I gave my heart to someone – anyone, I would be theirs wholeheartedly. I was willing to give a dignified level of loyalty, if and only if, I would gain that equal and tantamount level of loyalty in return. I don’t dare move for anything less than that assurance.

Again, self-preservation.

It’s funny how I didn’t see that then. My own vanity lay in that context. I was willing to be untouchable for as long as I would feel safe, I wasn’t afraid to disregard the world as a means of an emotional cushion. I did not want to love because I knew I would love too much.

But I met you, and you made a mess of things.

I found my perfection and he’s utterly frustrating. Oddly enough, that made me love him more. How is it possible to find someone so fitting? Not the ideal image that you doodle in your diary as ‘Mrs. Whats-His-Last-Name’ no, the real thing, I’ve found the real thing. You fit in like the missing little puzzle piece, the perfect glass slipper that I didn’t believe existed in the first place. For some sick, sweet reason you threw me back to those doe-eyed days. You tore down my walls so easily and settled so cozily in my soul, like you’ve always lived there. No one’s supposed to be there, you know. Just me. You’ve really made a mess of things, haven’t you? You are more me than I am, and there are times when it still freaks the hell out of me. 

I’m glad though. Really, I am.

I met you – and that is the best thing that could happen. You made me believe in fairy tales once more. Thank you.

So, to be vulnerably honest, for the sake of being candid. I will write down all the reasons why I feel  this way about you. You may not see this post though, I still pray that you will. While I could tell you all of this in person, I simply can’t. I fear you will think me too clingy, as I already am with you. 

I love you, because you’re you. You’re such a fucked up mess, you know that?

I love you, because you’re constantly anxious about the silliest of things. You overthink and then you get stuck, and you sit there, and you do nothing, and I’d have to try and coax you to do something. You constantly get stuck. I love you for that.

I love you, because of you’re laugh. You’re laugh is the realest version of music I have ever heard.

I love you, because of the million little things you didn’t know you were doing.

I love you, because you have a soft-heart. You cry easily – even at certain We Bare Bears episodes. Don’t pretend that you don’t. I do too. 

I love you, because you’re pretty much intense when you’re angry, but when you apologize, I know you’re sincere. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to walk out.

I love you, because your eyes are piercing.

I love you, because walking with you anywhere – even at the mall – makes me feel at home. Seriously dude, you make getting groceries sexy.

I love you, because even if you don’t tell me you love me, I know. I have a gut feeling.

I love you, because I get crazy bat-shit jealous. Like I would skin any girl you could ‘potentially’, ‘hypothetically’ like. I would skin them and feed their meat to Gryffindor.

I love you, because I feel propelled to care for you. I think about you constantly. I worry about you.

I love you, because I just made you three of the male leads in the novel I’m writing.

I love you, because you look good in black – like me!

I love you… and because, most of your wardrobe is black. 

I love you, because you eat a lot. Oh yeah, I see you reach for that extra rice. Subtle, very subtle.

I love you, because we both like writing poetry (Mine’s better though).

I love you, because we compliment each other’s sense of humor. Dark, savage and a bit of burn.

I love you, because you secretly mention my name in the comment section of some dank memes or some adorable, eye-opening quote on Facebook.

I love you, because you can switch from listening to metal in one minute and then listen to something sweet the next. Your playlist ranges from male angst-ridden screamos to coffee shop rainy Sundays. You are so fickle, and yet you insist on listening to the whole album first.

I love you, because you let me be the moody artist-writer that I am, because you understand that I see the world differently.

I love you, because we both like playing Diablo 2.

I love you, because even if we were meant to fall apart in this lifetime – I love you enough to still fall in love with you in the next – even if you’ll still make a mess of things then.





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