Could I be loved if I failed to impress your family or friends?
What if all my words came out strange, and I did all the wrong things?
What if my voice kept breaking, or I were awkward, or said nothing at all?
Could I be loved, like this?
What if my hair turned grey, and I gained weight, wrinkles deepening, like rivers, across my face?
Here I am, naked, no make-up or pretty things. Could I be loved? Like this?
What if I were poor and had no
ambitions? What if all I wanted to do with my life was to sit under a tree and let the whole world come to me, instead of me to it? Could I be loved, then?
None of that matters, you say,
pulling me in for a kiss.
All that matters is this,