Be Her Voice, Be Her Reason

Wait! Why are you looking at me that way? What did I do this time? Chill, let’s get real with it once again. You don’t think I’m worth what? I’m not beautiful enough, or my curves aren’t the dream. Oh, I see where you're going — I’m not the wealthy guy playing in your imagination. Come on, why are you so surprised by my guess? Don’t worry, I’m used to the guessing. I’ve been guessing all my life — guessing whether I’m even loved, guessing whether I mean something to someone.

Right now... I think I’m alive. I mean, I wish I wasn’t just living because God still finds my ugly face worthy. I wish I could be happy living, but as usual, I guess it’s just not possible. It’s just not!

Oh, now you’re a little concerned. Why are you asking me why? The moment I walk out the door, your eyes remind me that I don’t have the pretty face or the "perfect" body. Oh! I’m not saying this for me — I’m saying this for her. In a couple of years, probably 70, I’ll be six feet down, and by then, you’ll have given me enough reasons to love life down there. I guess I’m loving it now, but 70 years is only real for those who plan to live beyond the present. For me, it’s a dream that never will be.

I’m an intertwined mess of misery within myself. But for her, she’s still growing. Please, love her roots. Love her imperfections. She might not be beautiful now, but you can help her. Give her a makeover with your words, with your time, with your patience. Adorn her faults and cracks with confidence in the better version she could become. Clothe her insecurities with the finest of your trust.

She needs a voice. She has a voice, and she screams with that voice, yet no one hears her screams. No one hears her voice. But they hear yours. So, be hers. Spread love, spread acceptance — the hate is enough. Suicides are too many, and now it seems even death is tired of dying. In all, be her reason to love living.