Every time I lose a friend to the Reaper’s scythe, I lose a layer in the walls I put up. I become more real, more open. That is the gift from these losses: the realness, my realness.
The realness is not always comfortable for others; I get that. You were not at all prepared for me to tell you in person over your soup and sandwich earnestly that really, truly, all is forgiven, and that every single day, you are loved. Every single day: believe it.
I won’t ever be ashamed of being real. There’s no shame in giving others love, in telling them they are important.
The rules you toss around…”it’s too soon to tell me that” or “it’s too late to say that to me” or “you can’t say that…” Screw the rules. I will tell you what I want you to know, what I need you to know, and I give zero fucks about the rules that dictate what I “should” say or do.
I will not regret giving love. There is no remorse in being kind.
I can only offer you my love; I can’t make you return it. I can only offer you my hand; I can’t make you take it. As long as it is true, I will offer it, unflinching.