I’ve always said that your words are what made my skin feel alive.
I was living before you, but not living well.
I was content but not overjoyed.
I was nothing compared to when you showed up at my door.
You spoke life into me, made me remember the feeling of lightning and fire and electricity.
Words that made me come into being,
Made me feel like my thoughts were interesting,
My viewpoints important.
Like I was so beautiful and shiny from the inside.
Made me feel like my touch was special to you.
That no one could fill my shoes.
Observations on things I did.
Reasons I was worth loving.
Ways you needed me.
Effects I had on you.
Things that made me feel seen.
Looking at me with your rose colored glasses.
Made me want to make breakfast.
Made me want to reach for you.
Made me want to please you.
Did I do a good job, daddy?
You say too much and it’s not special anymore.
That’s what you tell me.
But, how could someone making you feel relevant in a world with billions of people,
Never not be special.
Feeling like my life is even better than the books I read.
Words that made me want to be the best possible version of myself.
My own self-important corner of the world.
A corner I worked my whole life to feel like this.
Literally feeling like I matter, when truthfully I am no one special.
Who could ever get accustomed to that?
How could I ever take that for granted?
How could that ever not be the most meaningful thing in my universe.
Truth is, I wish I still inspired you to talk to me that way.
So I just sit back and reread the past all the time.
And I’m sorry I don’t inspire you.
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