Let’s talk about a girl.
It doesn’t matter who she belongs to. In essence, at the core of everything, she belongs to no one and yet, you see her as yours, floating alongside your hopes and dreams and aspirations for a normal life with someone who thinks and talks and acts just like you.
Let’s talk about a girl that is perfect in every sense.
The way she looks when she first wakes up. The way she combs her hair and eats her breakfast, nimble teeth gliding effortlessly into plums and peaches, sweet nectar dribbling down her chin. The way she laughs when too many glasses of wine have her hanging onto your shoulder, pleading for you to take her to bed or to hold her hair while she begs for mercy above a toilet.
She is perfect in every sense.
The way she talks when her eyes get shiny and a stare finds meaning inside of meaningless things. The way her fingers tap on kitchen counters covered in flour, that dull thump catching your ears, those little tips eagerly awaiting your kisses.
She is perfect in every sense, and yet, she does not belong to you or to anyone.
We all belong to our scars. We belong to our memories. They tether us to the notion that we’ve come from somewhere that no one has ever been before, the way a rope tricks itself into thinking that it can keep a tiny boat secured fast to an old wooden dock, regardless of the surging tides and howling winds.
We all belong to our insecurities. We belong to our childhood and yet we long to distance ourselves from a past that has us handcuffed to a sinking ship.
She is perfect in every sense of the word.
The way she cries at night, holding fast to the sleeve of your shirt, releasing and then clenching down again, harder and harder until her knuckles are white and her tears are pumping like a split fire hydrant.
The way she says “I’m sorry”, eyes trying their best not to find your own, feet dangling closer and closer to footprints left on a beach that wasn’t ready to feel her skin.
She is perfect in every way. Even the scars. Even the deep gouges that hit bone and heart alike, sticking to her insides the way spiders build webs even in the most ill-fated places.
We all belong to our scars and to no one else. They have manifested themselves into men in black suits, faces obscured by shadows and cigarette smoke, lips whose whisper can only be heard when the inner monologue of “It will all be okay” goes dim like a candle running out of wax and wick.
She will never belong to you or to anyone.
But if you can find a way to help her forget those scars and those wounds, detaching yourself from those places of hurt and anguish, you will belong to her heart.
A scar is beautiful but a heart is more beautiful than any sunset or sunrise. More beautiful than any place your eyes have ever felt. More beautiful than any laugh or wisp of hair. More beautiful than any memory that makes you smile.
Let’s talk about a girl.