Not everybody was born to be successful, well-liked (much less loved) people. I'm one of them. And you know, it's ok. Sure it'd be nice to be truly loved, but it's empowering to know you've survived this long without it. You've gone a long ways without a shoulder to cry on. Life always moves on and even though tonight you feel like the world may end, tomorrow you'll wake up and wish it wouldn't. It's unpredictable that way, jumps you, like a mugger. We are good at telling ourselves this. We fall apart a little every day, some days more than others, but we hold onto the idea that tomorrow could be different. We no longer hope for somebody to love us; there's no point. We don't look in the mirror and hate our bodies because everybody else does. No, we take care of it. Because if we don't, nobody else will. We're tragically okay with being leftovers, even though it hurts to be reheated every week.
Instead, I find my love in places ordinary humans would find nothing. I gaze at Orion every clear night, and I feel perhaps I am his child in some strange way. I feel like maybe I belong up there, shooting stars with arrows and dancing through the infinite darkness. I find a friend in a constellation.
I kiss my horses on the nose, because sometimes that heals more wounds than holding a hand ever could. I hug their great necks and feel their tremendous strength ebb through me, allowing me to rest like I never had before. I listen to their strong heartbeat singing me a song for the courageous, and cry for joy that I can finally be weak if but for a moment. I wipe my tears with their manes, and continue with my day.
I nestle deep in the warm summer grass, lulled to sleep by the peepers and crickets. A spider crawls across my hand but I lie still; he means no harm, why should I destroy him for something he never did? That would make me a monster too. So I name him Thomas. He continues down his miniature forest trail, and my eyes sag downwards as the sweet summer breeze sings me away to a land where only happiness exists.
I skip through the woods, telling the trees and the birds the secrets I keep from every human being. It feels good to get them off my chest, and I feel perhaps the leaves are whispering to me, and that flap of a butterfly's wing; it means something to me that nobody else will ever be able to read.
You see, I grew up alone, after about age 6 or 7. I couldn't handle the pain and rage of the panic-filled indoors, so I took to the wilds to wash off my hurt. I didn't have a home inside my house, so I made my own outside of it. I cried bitter tears into my horse's neck at midnight, locked out of the house and tired of the hard floor and cramped space of the doghouse, where the Golden Retriever nobody ever deserved had anxiously tried to lick the scars of sorrow away. I laughed happily as I galloped into the blue, lost in my own world of make-believe as I notched another crooked stick 'arrow' into the non-existent bowstring and dug my bare heels in the appaloosa's furry sides, drinking the wind like alcohol to keep my mind off things that were terribly wrong behind us.
That's how I spent my days you see, with wind for vodka and prairie grass for drunken hugs; so whenever I feel I'm not loved, and whenever it hurts a little more than it should, I try to remember that I have a home that will never leave me. I could be the poorest person in the world, yet be the richest one alive at the same time.
I would love a home. I would love a safe spot for my weary soul to rest. A chest to put my head on (specifically yours) and listen to the methodical rhythm of their heartbeat. Somebody to hug me tightly, and hold me while I fall asleep. I want that so badly it nearly makes my cry, but it's still a comfort to know that the raw earth will hold me too.
I'm not sure what it takes for a girl to be loveable, because I don't have it in me, obviously.
I'm not sure why some days it hurts and some days it doesn't, but I can tell you one thing.
Don't pity us. We are strong, we are bold, we are brave, and we are survivors. We refuse to let our pasts hinder us long enough to bog us down in the depths of despair. We've made it this far without your pity. We don't need it now. What you can do is love us. We crave love like a starving man craves a crust of bread. We can't get enough of it, because we never have. We will live. We will make it. We are warriors and our army is invincible.
But it sure would help if you loved me...
