I am afraid that my words are the best part of me. You know my insecurities. You know my fears, my doubts, my darkness that swallows me. But I don’t think I’ve ever really let you see the woman that seeks release. You’ve never walked the seashore and seen me dance like a little girl. You’ve never seen me sit with a child and read a book using dozens of voices. You’ve never seen me immersed in the world of music while my fingers type furiously of my passions that scare even me. You’ve never watched me in the kitchen, absorbed in the mundane task of preparing a meal that would make you proud of me. You’ve never watched me turn my face to the sky and catch a snowflake on my tongue. You’ve never held my hand on a roller coaster, watching and feeling the adrenaline overtake my senses. If you had met that woman … correction, this woman … would you still love me?
I don’t remember when I wrote this, but I remember why. And I know the same question haunts me today.