Dearest O;

i get that you think i deserve better than the broken man you are, but i don't want better (at least not today). i want everything that is you, now, and i want to, not heal you but help you see the version of you i see when i stare at you. i know i can't heal you, i can't fix you, thats something for you to do for yourself. But i can help you by presenting you with the mirror to help you see what i see of you.

i hear you when you tell me you hate yourself, every part of who you were, who you've become, and who your afraid you may become if you don't correct your path. i hear it, in every breath you take, every motion of your body, every word you speak, i hear it.

You tell me not condemn myself for my part of any of your past, but there are parts of your past i can't help but condemn myself for; and one of those parts are still unfolding.

i know you are not perfect, O, but i don't need perfect. There may be better men out there for me, maybe even already in my life (i admit grudgingly) but they are not what i want.

i've now said, openly to you, that while my heart may be polyamorous, able to embrace the presence of many, my body and my mind only want one.

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