She managed to look at me, to love me like she couldn’t see the worst parts of me that lurked just beneath the surface of who I was. She knew those things were there. She’d seen firsthand what I was. Whether she chose to ignore it and act like it wasn’t there, or just chose to see it openly and embrace the fucked up parts of me, I guess I might never know. What was purely certain about it was that she decided to love me anyway; broken pieces and all.
