I am not the girl you get to hold for a moment, then let go of. The girl whose worth is determined by the eagerness of your hands.
I don’t love you yet. But maybe that doesn’t matter. Because every time I look into your eyes, I know you’re right where I am—falling fearlessly, one kiss, one laugh, one moment at a time.
Someone’s perception of you is not your identity.
You tell me you miss me and that things haven’t been the same, but all that’s different is that you’re starting to forget what my skin looks like in the dark.
I sometimes forget who I am because I am so overwhelmed in what my illness makes me.
Like most kids, I grew up believing that being myself was a dangerous and stupid choice.
After being away from you for long enough, the return of my creativity nearly brought me to tears. Happy tears. It also contributed to my new found self-worth. Without you.
It’s hard to pick up all the pieces that you left me in.
It us up to us, as women, to learn the power of our voices, the strength of our skin, the value of coming together in protest—maybe not in silence, but, simply in solidarity—affirming that our presence matters. Our presence deserves to be heard.
A book has its own history. It can bring us back not just to the world within its pages, but to the world where we entered it.