Someone once asked me what the best compliment I ever received was.
And I didn’t know. I’ve been told I’m attractive, I’ve been told I write beautifully. I’ve been called an enigma, I’ve been told my layers are the best thing about me. I’ve been called home, I’ve been called family.
But nothing ever really stuck to me in ways I want something to stay with me. No one ever left me heaving and breathless with just their words and I’ve wanted that to happen for very long. I want to hear someone’s raspy voice at 2 AM. I want to hear them say what they love most about me, what they love least.
He told me loved me, he just never told me why. And I was a drowning sea shell, a burned out ember. I hated being that way. I was an equalist, you see. I wanted to be strong and durable and wild.
And I knew I was. I’ve been told I’m the girl you can reckon with, someone you want to sit and argue with and then make love. But in moments of weakness, when I needed to hear why he loved me even when I didn’t, he never told me. He just didn’t. And I was left wondering, if they saw nothing in me that they could fix, that they could change, would anyone ever love me? Would they want to be with me if they thought I had no void that they could fill? Would they love me if I was whole and at the top? Because that’s where I wanted to be. And I needed to hear it. But all I heard was a silence that screamed louder and louder with the passing seconds.
And it seems a tad bit desperate , so ancient, maybe even mildly pathetic, the need for me to hear why I’m loved. But what I believe, even in the hours I don’t believe in love itself, is that everyone needs to hear it. Me, him, you, they.
And I did what I do best, I did what I do when I can’t think straight. I wrote. I wrote what maybe my heart really wants to hear when it’s holding onto just a few strings.
“I would love to sit by your grave and read you all your favourite books, but I’d rather do it as you lay half asleep in my arms. I want to argue with you about cheese and wine, drink myself insane by only looking at your eyes. I want you to rant about the universe while I lay in your lap. I want you to write me poetry and carve your thoughts into my skin with soft kisses. I want to feel your hair and flirt with you when you’re upset. You, you’re not just a girl I want to be with. You’re the girl I’d give up all that I am to be with, because I know your mind and your touch would make me, me again. So love me. Tell me the worst you’ve ever done, the worst you’ve ever been. And let me love you even so. Love me, because I would become a better man by being yours.”
Would you tell me what I need to hear when I can’t write it for myself?