I wish you’d met me earlier, back when I was still open and generous and my heart was almost cartoonish — you know, Disney Princess kind. Back when I was goofy, when I laughed with a heartiness and infectiousness that no one could deny. Those days, I always looked forward to every tomorrow. I wasn’t in my own way; I wasn’t stuck glorifying the past.
I wish you’d met me earlier, back when my eyes were filled with twinkly lights, naivety –whatever you want to call it. I saw romanticism in the most mundane. I was a walking poetry book, thought of stars as things of beauty and not just impending deaths.
I wish you’d met me earlier, back when I was receptive and outgoing. I would have responded to your text immediately, would have turned school girl-giddy whenever I saw your name pop up on my screen. I would have stayed up late talking to you, even if it meant exhaustion the next day. I would have made it clear how special you were, how ridiculously lucky I felt whenever your fingers brushed against my skin.
It would be nauseating, really, how I’d fit your name into random conversations. I would brag about your accomplishments to friends, my insides bursting with absolute pride. There’d be no doubting my affection. It would be written all over my face.
I wish you’d met me then, back when I was happier or younger, or Hell, I don’t know. Just different.
Back when I accepted love instead of pushing it away. Back when I went for what I wanted instead of cowering in the background.
I wish you’d met me earlier, before the tragedies and run-ins with my own mortality. I’d trade what I know to know a little less, be a little more in the dark. I shone a little brighter, then.
Back when I was brave and the kind of person who deserved to be with you. Maybe that’s what all this comes down to. All this nostalgia. All this regret.
I guess, I just wish you’d met me back when I was actually worthy of you someone like you. But God, do I keep trying. God, do I hope I figure it out soon.