
She is Beautiful
She is beautiful.
She can’t quite accept that.
I don’t say this to try and push her to believe it, but I really do think she’s the most beautiful person I know. To me, she glows.
One day she’s going to believe someone who tells her these things,
and, yes, I do hope it’s me, because her belief would not be wasted on me.
She is beautiful.
I try to be careful not to put too much focus on her physical appearance. She is a beauty, and I’m sure several hundred guys have told her the same, but I’m not one of them and I never will be.
What I see coming out of that pretty face of hers elevates her so much higher than that. I see how extraordinarily sweet she is, how deserving of good things she is, her kindness, generosity of spirit, intelligence, and, yes, a glowing inner beauty.
I am stricken by it.
She is not just some girl. She’s not someone to settle for, she’s someone to be hoped for, wished for, prayed for, lose sleep over, write page after exhaustive page of heartfelt words for, someone to be appreciated like the world bent itself in half to give a priceless gift no one can ever deserve, only be endlessly grateful for.
She deserves to be the center of a love story that others pale next to. She deserves to go to sleep at night knowing she means the world to someone. She should never ever be secondary to anyone.
She is beautiful to me in a way that, honestly, no one else in the world comes close to and I don’t think that’s crazy, I think she deserves to have someone feel that way about her.
She is a work of art, beautiful brush strokes in every imaginable color, and each one fascinates me until I have to stop and breathe because I often find myself holding my breath when I’m thinking about her.
There are nights I’ve lain awake thinking about her until the sun came up.
There is nothing good in this world that she does not deserve and I will always want to give those things to her.
The women I’ve previously chosen to give my heart to have, with *rare* exception, only appreciated specific things about me, not me as a whole, and not the fact that I had given my heart to them. I accept my fair share of the blame for making terrible decisions.
These days I’m trying to make better decisions, and I genuinely feel that opening my heart to her, while risky, scary, and painful, might be one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. She’s everything I could ask for in a woman and a whole hell of a lot I didn’t even know to hope for.
She’s been treated like a piece of meat, belittled as if she’s stupid (she’s fucking brilliant), and given every tired, hackneyed, groan-inducing line in the book. She’s been mistreated and hurt.
Her scars speak loudly.
I ask her to look at me with her heart, not her scars. I don’t demand it. I understand scars. She knows they’re screaming in my ears just as loud as they are in hers. I won’t let them get in the way of what could be a wonderful thing, though, not when my heart knows it. I’ll always be gentle with her scars, because I do understand, but if there’s a single person in this world that she’s safe from gaining more scars with, it’s me.
She can’t know that, and I don’t expect her to just accept that, but if she gives me the chance I’ll prove it to her.

