He told me I was all types of wonderful.
He said I found something melancholic in everything;
That I saw meaning in all things I perceived.
And that it was so, so beautiful.
But no, it was just what I saw.
I didn't understand.
Everything felt so disheartening to me.
I didn't understand him,
who found beauty
in my own sadness.
He said he loved me for who I was,
but he didn't really know me.
For who I am.
Who I became.
Who I turned out to be.
He told me he understood,
but I know he didn't.
I could see it in his eyes,
and his smile.
In his words,
that speak of such sweetness,
but with simplicity.
Maybe it was me who couldn't understand him.
I found bleakness in the way he loved me,
and that was when I decided:
there was definitely something deeply wrong with me.
Maybe I was broken.
And perhaps broken people,
were only meant for broken people.
— Y.H.
desolation,
gentle fervor.
"You are so beautiful," he told me, "You just don't know it."
What if I told you I didn't want to be beautiful.
I wanted to be understood.
I wanted to understand.
I wanted to love,
the way you did for me.
(c) Y.H.
