Dear You,
I wanted to write you to let you know that I love you. You scoff, because you don't think I could possibly love you when I don't even know you- as if love has anything to do with knowing. Of course it's true: I don't know you. But do you realize that love is an action and I choose to love you just the same?
With this love, I forgive you for all of the stupid shit you said and the cruel things you did.
I can feel you scoff again, "The audacity this woman has to forgive me. Who does she think she is?" Well, wouldn't you know it; you're right again. You don't need me to forgive you of anything. Who am I to you?
Now then, say it to yourself. I forgive you for all of the stupid shit you said and the cruel things you did.
Did you feel it this time? You might need to say it again, because you're the one who truly matters in this equation. I wish that you could see my love and know that it's there, but my love pales in comparison to your own. This outward love that comes to you, it cannot heal your heart. The healing must come from within. There are few who can save themselves, many that call upon another name, and many still that wail and repeat for atonement.
Who will save your soul when your heart is weighed?
