You. You don't like yourself. I argue with you all the time, yet I still adore you. You consider yourself ugly, and you are the furthest thing from it; not just to me. Others remark that you are by no means ugly; exotic, different looking, maybe, but by no means are you ugly. I don't usually like handsome men. You are, maybe, the first handsome man I have ever felt for; I'm not attracted to attractive faces. I began to adore you once I started to know you properly; before I'd been terrified of your beautiful face. I suppose you'd never known that.
Maybe that isn't the only reason you dislike yourself. I'd like to hear your woes, lord knows you assuage mine. You are the best at listening to my dislike of myself, and making it ridiculous in my eyes, because you are honest with me all of the time, and I adore you for being that mirror for me. I wish I could do the same for you.
Norah Vincent says that men need comfort without contact, and I agree. I can see that need in you. It is silly, then, to fantasise about cradling your head on my chest and holding your hand when what you need is someone to provide a solution, or at least to listen. I would love to listen.
Thursday, 17 January 2008
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