I wanted to be loved too, but I feel like I’m far from giving a love that’s worthy of what I’m going to receive. I wanted to collapse into someone’s arms too, as if surrendering the weight of me to a lightweight feather, but I’m afraid I’ll hold too tightly, enough to scratch the skin into a wound. I wanted to have someone ready to catch me in every one of my downfalls, but I’m afraid I’ll drag them down enough to let them turn into a corpse inside my coffin. I wanted to be held, but it’s frightful to let someone touch my skin when I’m this fragile: hold me in a grip, and I’ll shatter; I’m afraid I’ll only make anyone who holds me bleed. I wanted to be loved, but for now, I want to be the first to do that. I’ll stitch myself up, even though I wanted someone to do it. Because to be loved is not the same as loving. And I want to love. I want to learn to love myself, too.