And from my own limited experience, I was under no illusion as to how messy loving a person could be. Because love hurt. It burned like hell. I got that. I accepted the pain. The self-inflicted flesh wounds it took to love another human. I wasn’t afraid of that. Of being hurt. Of anything for myself. My fear rested in my inability to love her the right way. In the potential I had to hurt her beyond repair or recourse.
