I feel obsessed with the idea of shame in the context of love, in relation to it. The trust of vulnerability, of taking your wounds and your guilt and all the bad things you’ve done and have been done to, taking them into someone’s hands and saying, Here. I trust you, here, these are my raw pieces, please don’t cut yourself on them but I’m so scared you won’t keep them. The intimacy of someone seeing you in your terrible existence, peeled open and humiliated, and seeing you but not shying away. The commitment, the choice, of accepting the bad as well as the good. The love that is kissing someone’s fears, all the ugly tender pieces that feel too fragile for the daylight. It’s about turning out every awful thing into their lap and seeing them sit with every one. Every terrible piece you can’t bear to hold onto, hold onto alone, entrusted into their hands with bated breath—Will you throw them away? These unpretty things. Will you throw me away? Everybody will take, with greed, the beautiful fractures of us. Who will accept the rest? Who will hear, I’m scared but I’m being brave anyway; I will be brave for you and say, I see all your horror—I love you anyway.
This is short, and probably doesn't make a lot of sense, but it's been something to think about, swimming around in my head for days.