I mean, I still believe in love despite having my heart cracked open like a pomegranate for its seeds; it, I, am stronger for it and will persevere in spite of it, despite it. I mean, I would crack my heart open and pluck the seeds out myself, if only to breathe easier. I used to shy away from this feeling; this hummingbird in my chest, these butterflies in my stomach, the uneasiness that has coiled itself around me like a second skin. But now I embrace it; I have learned to sit with the malaise, speak kind to myself even on my worst days. I mean, my worst days arenāt a reflection of who I am, they are a reminder that I donāt have to be āonā all the time. I mean, I keep telling myself itās okay to say no, to disappear for a while, stop pouring from an empty teacup. I mean, film and all that (donāt say āall that, just filmā), portray everyone as perfect all the time. Even at their worst. I mean, I no longer expect my life to be like a movie, where a boy will win me a teddy bear from the fair, hold my hand, kiss me under a crescent moon and tell me he loves me. I mean, I only like the fair for fried dough slathered in warm pizza sauce and snowy parm cheese. If we go, usually it rains. I mean, I love the rain when I used to be terrified of it; the smell of damp earth and grass has become a soothing balm. I mean, the thunder used to scare me, but now I throw open the door and sit on my patio, a curtain of rain inches from me. I mean, I no longer romanticize being kissed in the rain, not when you can wrap your arms around me in the warmth of the bed and we can listen to the rain while we cuddle each other to sleep. I mean, I guess Iām not young anymore: love, hell, life is more than just the sunny days, but the rain never bothered me much anyway.
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