When you wrote your first letters to me, you apologized for the mistakes you’d made. I interpreted it differently each time I read it over. Could you be saying sorry for the scratched out ink on the paper, or the past or present, or something else?
Whatever it is that you meant, I concluded the same thing. I sensed that you’ve been made to feel bad after every mistake, misstep, and mispoken word. I know how it is. You get down on yourself. Disappointed. You feel that every “wrong” that you’ve done is a scar you bear in shame, and I’m here to change that. I want to open your palms and trace the lines that you’ve “wronged” the world with, and tell you that they make you so much more human and beautiful in my eyes. Your mistakes are just humble reminders of who you are right now, and I think you’re lovely. Hey, don’t be sad.