look what you've done to this rock and roll clown

You didn’t think you could just look me in the eyes and call me perfect and just expect me not to address it, did you?

Fact is, I’m not perfect. In some ways, I’m a wreck. I am a broken woman who will never really be whole again. That’s how it is, with trauma, so I’m told. It leaves marks and scuffs and scratches, and sometimes it breaks pieces off, and sometimes it just shatters you, outright. I was laying there in pieces for a long time before we met. And then when I got swept up, I was handed a little tube of sticky stuff and told I needed to reassemble my head. I’ve had to put myself back together piecemeal with nothing but a little bit of dust and superglue.

Well, then, you came along and you took that ugly patch job and turned all that superglue into gold. Because sometimes what we hurting, broken people need the most is each other. Commiseration. Understanding. Someone who won’t let you slide backward, and you won’t let them either, because damn it, if they slip, you’re going downhill fast, too.

I should be thanking you, too.

For looking at somebody who was in shambles after nearly dying from her own pain, and deciding to give her a chance even though you had no reason to.

For offering that shoulder to cry on despite everything you went through, and trusting me enough to take the chance to heal, yourself.

For giving me that company when I needed it the most.

Look at what I’ve turned into thanks to you. I never used to be this much of a pile of sugar. But I guess that really is just how life goes, isn’t it? Feelings like these don’t have to play fair. They can just tackle you out of nowhere while you’re minding your own business one day, and now you’re stuck here. And your heart is racing, and every time they look at you, your stomach flutters.

For what it’s worth, I don’t want to go back to not knowing what this feels like. I understand now. All the hokey movies, all the goofy, cheesy songs. I get it now. I get what makes people write this stuff. It doesn’t feel all that corny anymore.

I’m not perfect. Neither are you. No one is. But hell, after all this, I don’t think we need to be.