Waiting for Permission

She was craving the love of the world,while her heart was quietly breaking,longing for the loveonly she could give herself.

She searched for affectionin the eyes of strangers,hoping to find a reflectiongentle enough to call her beautiful.

She collected complimentslike a beggar collecting coins,holding each kind word close to her chest,hoping that if she gathered enough,she might finally have somethingworth loving about herself.

And isn’t it tragic?

To stand before a mirrorand wait for someone else’s lipsto tell you what your own eyesare allowed to admire.

To hold your heartlike an unfinished painting,waiting for the world’s approvalbefore daring to call it art.

To measure your worthby the tenderness of other people’s tongues,and allow their silenceto become a verdict against you.

I think one of the cruelest thingsthat can happen to a personis to believe that self-loveis a privilege granted by others.

To spend a lifetimestanding at the doorstep of your own heart,waiting for strangersto give you permission to enter.

To crave so desperatelythe affection of the worldthat you forgetyou are part of that world too.

And perhaps that is the saddest irony:

She kept begging the worldto love her,while the one personwho had been with herthrough every heartbreak,every sleepless night,every season of becoming,

stood quietly within her,waiting to be loved.

She was so busyasking the world to choose herthat she forgotshe could choose herself.