Love on Every Inch of You

I love you.

You.
With the glasses your classmates teased you about when you were little.
You.
With the acne you can't seem to get rid of no matter how  much you shower,
how little chocolate you eat,
or how old you get.
You.
With whatever feature you find so utterly repulsive
that you cannot believe another human being would ever see you naked and rejoice.

I love that you are alive.
I love that each breath I take contains a little bit of you,
and of me,
and of every person who has ever lived.
I love pressing my hand to my heartbeat and knowing you feel the exact same thing.

I know you don't believe me.
You can't even consider the possibility.
And deep in your heart you doubt anyone—
not just a perfect stranger,
but people who know you down to your last neuron—
can really love you.

Do you know what else I know?

I know that it isn't true.

You are precious.
You are beautiful.
You are handsome.
You are every face I have ever wanted to kiss, to touch, to laugh with.
You are my sunlight;
you are my joy.
You are the reason I can walk in the shadow of death and fear no evil;
you are my guide on the straight way.
In protecting you, I am protected; in knowing you, I know myself.

And when I am in your place someday…
When I am trapped at my very lowest point where no words can reach me and love isn't even a memory…

I will think of you, my darling.
You, caught in the same place.
You, still fighting.

You.
The person I love.