When you look at me, at any woman, respect her enough to see past her exterior.
My body is an amazing, functional machine. One that gracefully carries me places, allowing me to see and experience the world. For once, I don’t care if you accept it, if it lives up to your expectations.
You don’t know everything there is to know yet, and that’s okay.
Now I’m left with so little it hurts.
Realize that you are tangible and valid, no matter the amount of “likes” that selfie you just posted gets. Remember that the quality of your worth isn’t measured by how many followers you have or by how many people publicly wish you well on your birthday.
I hate to admit it, even to myself, but I miss having you around. Or, at least, I miss the idea of you.
I’m sorry that everyone around you has bought into the lies, that they speak them as truths and use them as a compass to guide them, a manual on how to see and treat others.
You left the earth without your daughter; I was not there to see you off, I did not get to say goodbye.
What’s so important to know is that the anxiety you experience is not your fault. You didn’t cause this. You did nothing so horrible as for the universe to force this on you as a punishment.
There are many things I try to say to you, things that I can only manage to get out when you’re asleep and dreaming, when it is too late for me to say them. But I am saying them now. I am saying them, to myself.