I don’t care what other people have said about you, how many times their mouths have spewed poison, how prolifically they’ve rained on your parade.
It doesn’t matter how soaked you are in the showers of censure, how tight their talons of tyranny have trespassed the sanctuary of your soul.
Their sly vice may mock you, wrapping itself around your heart like a spandex python and sucking it into a sun-dried skeleton–their slipshod gossip may chop at your being like a lumberjack’s ax, shredding the sacred structure into a wreckage of raw flesh. But here’s the thing: the degree to which they’ve swallowed your words, drowned your dance, tricked your thoughts, made you feel like the biggest loser in all of history… none of it matters, because you’re wonderful.
They can stalk around like peckish lions and make the hairs on our arms stick up straight like silver needles, make our spines quiver with the creeps, make our confidences shrivel up into a handful of raisins.
Their presences, starved of company, will flood our homes with grim gravity and they will laugh like they’re known to do at our perceived naivety. They can gossip like a flock of vultures and bleed bad vibes, perched in the boughs of their brutal brilliance, looking down on our innocence. Because that’s what they do, it’s their expertise – they’re professional freaks.
They who are full of darkness will be cruel, they will be cold, their icicle thoughts and iceberg hearts will chill you to the bone, but remember this: They’re living like slaves in a season of snow, but you’ve got the sunshine of a lightyear in your soul.
They’re going to hate that peace inside of you. They’re going to hate how vulnerable you are, how sweet you are, how open your eyes look and how clearly your soul shines through those winking windows, and this will trigger them. Love always triggers something in everyone — it’s the ultimate big red button.
There are so many people out there whose souls are just clumps of calcified trauma and they’re giving all their energy into keeping closed that skeleton-filled closet. Since such a huge portion of their psyche goes into the task of taming that behemoth, that enraged little child within them who never stops crying in pain, they’re going to hate anything that softens them, that domesticates them. Anything that sands their serrated horns, that calms their braying breath, that shushes their shaking sins into the silent past — it’s a sour sip of battery acid to their brittle ego still shivering with chemical exposure.
They’re riddled with wounds and smothered in scabs and they’re kicking like a convulsive kangaroo because you’re going against everything they’ve worked for. You’re melting their castle of ice. You’re yanking them away from the comfort of their downward spiral. You’re grabbing the dying motion of their life and throwing it in reverse. You’re buttering their bitter soul in the balm of rebirth. You’re offering the lifejacket, but they’ve already decided they’d rather drown.
These people have labored long and hard to bury their sins in the ground. Yet at the same time, they want the pumice of their pounding heart to be softened — they haven’t felt the beauty of a full beat in years.
They’ve been living in the confines of superficial survival since the dawn of time. They felt the ripe weight of rain at the first roaring of their life, at the very entrance of their genesis into the gallimaufry of this madness and it morphed them from moonstruck to mutilated, hopeless to control their hurting heart with its leaden wingspan as it threatened to crack open their chest with every challenged heave.
Bruised by the merciless monsoon, by the brutal fist of fate, they themselves were beaten into soundless submission. And now all they have to show for a heart is a paper mache piñata packed with skin upon skin of scar tissue, issue upon issue of emotional baggage. They struggle to dictate the very function of their inner world. Every day is a sinister circus and they the walloped ringleader. Their anemic willpower is the handler, their soul is the spike-toothed tiger in the crate, its inky stripes glinting with thunder, its luminescent irises impishly broadcasting a battle between destiny and fate. They’re a roughhoused ragdoll tossed between love and hate.
They’re a jungle of jiving demons, a tight-lipped loner layered in sheet after sheet of leathered heartache, a stone inside a stone beating rivers of deadweight.
They’ve grown worlds around themselves, choked by raven-black woods, great billowing bloodbaths of brooding moods, and they breathe each day with hesitant breath, each muscle tensed, each secret kept, each pain hemmed into their very hemoglobin, meshed with their muscles, bonded with their bones, nestled in their neurons like ghosts in an abandoned home.
And with each pull of the heartstrings, their cadaverous cocoon is cracked a little bit more – their stony stature is melted by the golden sugar of the sun, and they’ll cringe. You’re simply witnessing their wince at the sudden heat wave.
Love them anyway.
They were once just as beautiful as you, just as hopeful, with a swooning set of snowglobe eyes in a face of dewy dreams, glittering with the anticipation of new things. They held the world in their hands like a tennis ball, playfully bouncing it off the walls and hoping they could handle everything it had to offer. But they were mistaken, and it became a bomb, blowing up in their palms and annihilating their childlike awe into a thousand glassy shards, cutting deep, wounding great, transforming them from seedling into sober, from excited into “eh.”
And a leviathan rose up from the ruddy waters, its roar as loud as the growl of a meteor, muffling any cry they might have uttered as its scales blotted out the stars. And this was Pain. And its darkness was such a tar-black glue that it suffocated their sense of the future and their concept of possibility, erased their spiritual agility, grabbed them by the neck and pushed them into a life of negativity, convincing them of the lie that nothing could be changed.
So they nodded their heads in agreement and nothing more was said.
And now here they are, abusing you and abusing themselves, a zealous student of pessimism and a faithful devotee of doom, still living out that dirty lie with all the passion that preceded the event — yet it’s skewed in the wrong direction, aimed at the wrong goal. In fact, it’s aimed at you, like a sizzling cannon of criticism pointed right at the target of your forehead. They’re insulting you, they’re trashing you, they’re climbing all over you like evil athletic kittens with claws as sharp as a 150-point I.Q. and they’re absolutely dousing you in the gasoline of their misery.
Well, do it again.
Love them anyway.
Spin their soul so hard it does a dizzying 180 and finds itself in the opposite direction, pointing toward the beauty of their reality.
You are wonderful.
Tell them they’re beautiful, worth it, and they’re not deserving of the abuse that Pain gives them.
You are wonderful.
Show them what Pain is trying to hide: The fact that they’re birthed from the breath of God, children of the future, victors of the past, promised a life more than this. You are yet to grow into the marvelous mansion you are, your soul has yet to stretch its infinite wings, filling all its lacy electric compartments with your winsome bling.
You’re a bountiful crop of coolness and the world is starving of the harvest you have to offer – you’re a rare sight, an odd one, wonky in all the right ways, and who on Earth would want to miss the scintillating shindig that lives inside the sparkle of your eyes, the coral blush of your blooming cheeks, the way a garden of energy gathers in the bed of your bones and makes you walk with the smoothest of bewitching swing?
Who are you?
Well, you’re wonderful.