Some people refuse to acknowledge the limitlessness of their beauty.
An indicator of this type of person is the recalcitrance of their shackled acquisition
of the gargantuan abyss where the cloaked insecurities arise in a vacillating cadence of naïveté and deprecation.
You are not trivial.
There is no crevasse swallowing your selfdom.
I shall gladly dig a tunnel in homage of your pulchritude.
I will splash like an enfant in spring on the puddles that configurate your soul,
smashing, bashing, mashing, banging until I collide with the nucleus of your absence
and give birth to you again and again just so you can slash and cut and snip and chop and carve and prick and nick and trim until your essence is ribbons.
And I promise to wear those ribbons
in my hair, around my neck, on my wrists, tied to my ankles.
I will display them with repletion because I'll know my vestures will be luminous even with the most lurid parts of you.
I will clamor to the heavens and to hell and to the ubiquitous noxiousness that we regard with disregard every day of our lives,
because I am ecstatic you are my friend, my comrade, my mate.
Whenever you are drowning in your frivolité and you cannot see the immensity of yourself,
I will (with much delight) shatter a thousand mirrors on your face
and brave seventy times seven times of bad luck
just so that you can find your resplendent reflection scattered among the million little pieces.
I shall patiently wait until you realize your vastness cannot be emulated in the shards of self-doubt and discord.
I will firmly grab your hand and help you rise from the border of perdition.
And when you cut yourself and are exhausted from trying to look for a validation you can only grant yourself,
And when the lacerations spill your blood on my hands,
I won't clean them. What for?
I am honored to be drenched in your inscrutableness.
I will take off the ribbons from my hair and wrists and neck and ankles
and tie them around your fingers, so you can wear what you thought was horrid,
so you can see that inadequacy makes you unexampled,
and that what you discarded as abject worthlessness constructs a mosaic of prodigiousness.
And that only you, in your profound glory, can save yourself from the wounds of erroneous superficiality.
You are not a pond, my friend, you are an ocean.
And the depths won't frighten me to the shallow shore.
And I promise I won't be distracted by the beauty of these shores,
because I have seen what's below, and it is big and potent and...