What would you say if they were standing in front of you? 

And you saw your bitten nails and greasy hair and eye bags. 

Skin that hasn't been washed in days and clothes that are covered in paint and dust and mud and you can never take them off because they're skin now. 

They're skin now too. 

And even your real flesh feels further away from your bones than it's really supposed to and maybe you're worried if you undress you'll fall apart. 

Right here on the floor in front of everyone.

And who could have that. 

But what would you say? 

Would you repeat the words that swam in your head when your nails were that bitten and your clothes were that torn? 

Would you tell them they're unloveable? 

Alone? 

Disgusting and broken and a stark repellant for everything good and genuine and honest and kind and beautiful in this world. 

Would you tell them they were just too different? 

For the love that pumps through the veins of the earth and into every tiny cell inhabiting a body and those bodies are humming and moving and feeling and loving and living. 

And they can only sit. 

Like a never ending Christmas party where one person is stood watching the floor but no one will ever ever ask them to dance. 

Would you tell them it's their fault? 

That it's because of the way they look, sound, act, feel, smell, taste. 

Would you tell them that they're just hard to swallow. 

That people have tried to grab them and shove them down their throat so they settle in their souls and finally have somewhere to glow but every time someone tried they blew up like a pufferfish and stabbed their spikes into a friend. 

Without even knowing they'd had a friend. 

How much of any of it would even be true? 

This small scared shivering thing that wants nothing more than to be loved. 

Rocking backwards and forth in a corner chanting "see me, see me I'm so lost, see me." 

                    "I don't know where I am anymore." 

How much could you bring yourself to say? 

How far could you get without choking up and stabbing yourself in the throat yourself because nobody ever deserves to hear those words. 

They could never be true for any human being, anything that can love, anything that can smile and be happy and has probably baked Rice Krispie cakes. 

How could you look them in the eyes and tell them they can never be loved. 

You probably couldn't. 

Because from outside the hurricane all you can see is freckles. 

And the way they write their letters. 

And the little faces they pull when someone says something they think is dumb. 

That smile that infects their face every-time they walk past true love in public or see a cat run across the road in front of them or look at a kid being thrown up in the air by their father and being caught every time. 

 

And you look into the eyes of the storm and they beg 

"Hate me." 

"I am so old and so tired and so lost and so alone."

"Please, 

                 For the love of god. 

    Hate me." 

But how could you hate anything that glows this bright. 

How could you hate anything that pauses when it sees a pretty sunset. How could you hate someone who would give their love to people who have stood on their very own throat because no one EVER deserves to feel as alone as they did. 

And you want to say 

"You are not hated. 

The world has been cruel and so have you but these hands that you wear and this face on your skull, it's all beautiful. 

I don't know when you thought you had to wrap up and scream and scream and never stop screaming until everyone around you is numb or bleeding too. 

I don't know when you started sealing over all the cracks of anything you've ever felt so that nothing shines out and nothing glows and nothing is seen and no one can hold you. 

I don't know how long you've been standing, crying, waiting to be asked to dance. 

And I am so sorry. 

For every single time I didn't see you, for every second I spent not kissing the scars from your hands. 

I am so sorry for spending hours in the mirror picking apart every single thing about somebody who just wanted to be LOVED. 

I am so sorry that I made you feel too big for every room you ever sat in. 

I'm sorry that I made you feel loud for every single breath that you made. 

And I'm sorry it made you want to hollow out the wall and sit there and live there and watch the people you love live their lives like it's words and pictures on a screen. 

And the world is not against you. 

You are not alone and separate, there is magnetism to your love too.

I don't know how to get you to open anymore. I don't know if you can even hear me in there after all this time covering your eyes from the muffled voices outside of your head. 

I'd put my hand on your shoulder if it wouldn't splinter and set fire under my fingertips. 

I wonder if in another life you never have to question what it's like to be warm. 

For now, my arms are open. 

I'm a couple feet away but if you ask I will move closer. 

I won't push and I won't complain, there is no time limit and I'm not here because I think I can fix you. 

I left you outside for too long and I'm inviting you in. 

It might be a little loud at first, maybe even stuffy. 

Maybe you won't know how to handle the fact that there are family photos around and blankets across the back of the sofa. 

But there's a mug in the cupboard with the first letter of your name on it if you ever feel like making yourself at home. 

And I promise that if you fall again, that even if the skin itches against your bones like it was never meant to fit them in the first place, you will never land alone. 

I love you, and I'm sorry."