You’re a student pilot, so I’m sure you spend a lot of time with your head in the clouds. Allow me to pull your two feet back on the ground, so you can notice the cracks in reality. Perhaps you’re wearing goggles so big that you can’t properly see, or maybe you’re the type of gunman with an itchy trigger finger to a certain degree, but I need to say this: you’re not in love with me.
When I meet someone for the first time, I try my best to leave a good impression because my mother taught me a small “the truth hurts” kind of lesson: as much as people try to not to judge a book by its cover, if their first thought isn’t pretty, they’ll put it down and pick another. Please pardon my sharp tongue, but how dare you speak with the inflection of a familiar lover when there’s still so much of me you have yet to discover.
I’ll let you say you’re “in love” with me after you’ve seen me at my worst. You need to hear my tongue tango with vulgar language as if it was the only mode of communication in the universe. You need to read the things I write; my every poem; my written method to converse. You need to ride the rollercoaster changes of mood: sometimes adventurous soul, sometimes unmoving blanket cocoon. You need to watch me cry, and see how I look nothing like those girls do in movies.
You can call me moody, choosy, or completely and utterly loopy, but these parts of me that don’t define the word “beauty” are parts of me nonetheless. You can’t say you love a book when you’ve only read the summary. You can’t tell me you’ve explored the ocean when you’ve only collected water from the surface. Do not go lecturing me about my life, what my beliefs should be, my purpose. You told me you studied how to deal with clear air turbulence.
There are spots on my complexion, you just haven’t seen them yet. My deepest apologies, but I can only accept your confession once you’ve loved them too.