Life has a funny way weaving subtle patterns into our lives without being too obvious. Sometimes these patterns stem from routines, traditions or cultural upbringings. Other times these patters can be seen in the people we attract; the people we let in.
So far, I’ve come to the conclusion that I like broken people.
I’ve chosen the sad ones, the crumbles, the black sheep, the ugly ducklings, the deformed pancake everybody always choses to eat last. These people are beautiful warriors. Whether it’s due to their mental illness, heartbreak, or deeply rooted insecurities, they’ve all got stories to tell. These types of people call me. I have am initial impulse to provide them with comfort, I want to be there for them, to listen, to care… I want to tell them how wonderful they are, and deep down, I want to fix them.
But you see, there’s a problem.
It’s frustrating to see how you can water a person long and hard, day after day, and still see how their heart cracks with every beat. You can cover your lover in blankets and poetry all night but the cold will still seep through your bones. You can sing sweet melodies in his ears, rub his feet, make him breakfast, but he will still leave when morning comes.
It’s not that he doesn’t love you. It’s that he doesn’t love himself. And how can you possibly serve a glass of icy lemonade when your pitcher is empty?
So light a fire, chase the sunrise for him. Like a phoenix, you will burn out and arise once more, just to see him smile. But you’ll grow tired. Eventually. You can pamper and mend the sores and bruises, but you can’t heal for them. You can’t fix people. And you shouldn’t feel guilty about this.
Don’t become somebody’s only source of security, safety… love. Because once you’re gone, you’ll be taking it with you.
To the boy whose heart I broke, I’m so sorry.
But you need to love yourself before you can love another.
Before you can love me.