You are all unfixable
You are all ugly, disgusting
You are all unintelligent
You are all failures
You all have scars that wont fade and when someone is kissing you and sees them, yes, they will be revolted
You all have sat alone for days on end because no one wants to be with you
You all have cried no matter how old or your gender or whether it was justifiable or not
You all have lied and tasted the regret as it stained your teeth
You all have hurt others, verbally, physically, stabbing with words, punching with fists
You all have chased dreams so big they could swallow you whole, and you all have never achieved them
You all have screwed the wrong person, or groped in the dark hoping maybe that certain somebody would be on the other side of the bed instead of a stranger
You all have broken bones, become disheveled, become improvised and felt ashamed
You all have stepped on worms on the sidewalk, not caring that you ended a life
You all have thrown garbage into the streets, and you all have been that garbage
But all these things are so incomparable to your beauty…Keep reminding yourself
In reading Anna Karenina I was reminded of my own letters, except mine aren’t from a dashing Count Vronsky, but they’re similar. So I went into my basement and searched through the mountain of totes until I found the one labeled “Casey stuff”. It was buried under Christmas wreathes and old school papers, behind the grandfather clock that doesn’t work. It smelled musty from all the old flowers I had saved, and I threw them in the garbage can because the soft pedals had been totally consumed by mold. But there they were, at least 50, maybe more, sitting in a tote, smelling gross, stained, looking very sad, if inanimate objects could convey emotions, that is. I can remember when they held so much though, overflowing with meaning, bursting with love, the lines on the paper were seams and they were stretched from the many memories inside.
Reading them made me feel dirty, and unpleasant, as if the love expressed was a sin, something I felt ashamed of. I pondered how those boys and I ever got that far, how I ever let our feelings become so engorged. The letters were bloated with lies, flaccidity. But I know that when those words were written, they seemed so true and immaculate. That phrases like “I love you” and “you’re so beautiful” among others were pure then, and felt within the deep caverns of their bodies. The poems about our future lives together, and the sentimental moments shared were not sickening to them as they would be now. There was no malignity or contemptuousness in their feelings and words, but genuineness, like a shining 24 carat diamond lodged in their hearts. And suddenly, the dirt began to fade, and the nauseous feeling in my gut subsided. Because these letters are beautiful, they are me, and my past, and who I am presently. They are snippets of people I have loved and polaroids of moments where I was happy. Yes, love and happiness disintegrate, and are often replaced with malice and distain, but those captured clouds of bliss so perfectly crystallized in letters should never lose their charm, should forever be cherished. For I was lucky enough to be found enchanting and graceful, shrewd and artful-beautiful; because being loved is a gift not to be taken for granted.
I will not be ‘famous,’ ‘great.’ I will go on adventuring, changing, opening my mind and my eyes, refusing to be stamped and stereotyped. The thing is to free one’s self: to let it find its dimensions, not be impeded.