In the corners of our hearts, where vulnerability blooms like wildflowers, there lies a truth: perfection is a mirage, a shimmering oasis we chase across shifting sands. But oh, my dear, let them call you imperfect—a tapestry of frayed edges and mismatched threads—because therein lies your magic.

You are not a polished marble statue, cold and unyielding. No, you are the mosaic of life’s tempests—the erratic brushstrokes on a canvas, the ink smudges in a forgotten journal. Your flaws are not blemishes; they are constellations—each scar, each trembling uncertainty, mapping out your journey.

Call me damaged, and I’ll wear it like a badge—a survivor’s mark etched into my skin. For we are all a little cracked, a little chipped, yet it’s through those fault lines that light seeps in. Our vulnerabilities are the portals to connection, the bridges between souls. So, yes, call me damaged, and I’ll whisper, “Thank you.”

And when the world labels me insecure, I’ll cradle that word like a fragile bird. Insecurity—the tremor before a leap, the flutter of hope against ribcage bars. It means I care, fiercely, about the things that matter. It means I’m still learning to dance with my shadows, to find grace in uncertainty.

Now, my love, lean in close. Listen as the night whispers its secrets: You are not loved despite your mess; you are loved because of it. Your jagged edges fit perfectly into the hollows of another heart. When they call you erratic, they’re merely glimpsing the cosmic dance within you—the collision of stardust and longing.

So, let them say what they will. We are not porcelain dolls; we are galaxies colliding. And when they tell you they love you—for your chaos, your fragility, your beautifully broken self—know this: They’ve seen the universe in your eyes, and they’ve found home.

© Beatriz Esmer

Dry Pastel – Children