I’m sorry,
I hope, Dearest,
that there is holiness.
I feel that there is not enough time to reconcile how many times you’ve whispered to your body you are ashamed of her.
Can you just sit with your arms around your knees,
And be here now?
If not with me, with your own skin in your hands, keep yourself here. Stay.
Trust your mind.
If your soul feels it cannot bear one more moment without tearing through your chest, it is because she knows something you do not.
It ends. It ends. It ends.
The deep irony that, Love, how much privilege there is in feeling the agony of that truth.
Be delighted.
You are worth being delighted for.
You are worth your own time, patience, admiration.
Surrender, maybe.
Cry, maybe.
This is sacred.
