You are a soft, messy thing. No one knows how to fix you — and that’s okay.
You don’t need to look for the kind of love that patches your wounds and builds you a new home within your body. You can do that on your own. You have fallen and you have risen time and time again; you are the living, breathing fragments of your triumphs and your tragedies, stitched together through hurt and hope, and you still shine. You still shine.
No, you don’t need anyone to light you up, to make you sparkle like the others. Your heart does not need to be validated, does not need to be legitimized.
No, you do not need loud love, you do not need the flash and bang of lust and authority, the twinkle of acceptance in their eyes. You just need good love, honest love — the kind of love that sits down to dinner with your demons, the kind of love that sees your bigness and your flaws and doesn’t flinch, doesn’t try to change you. You need the kind of love that doesn’t complain when your heartbeat wakes them up in the middle of the night, that doesn’t care how loud your restless mind is or how your chest is always unhinged and open to the world, how your heart bares it’s teeth for all to see, how your spine howls at the moon.
You are a dangerous angel — you don’t need the kind of love that saves you. You can do that on your own. You are a soft and messy thing, don’t ever let them contain you. 
