You, in the words of me.

So maybe I’m not the right person for this, and perhaps I don’t make enough sense myself to make any sort of sense of you - but this is you, in the words of me, with as much sanity and sense as I have to give.

You’re fragile. moreso than anyone can tell, and moreso than you’d ever like to admit. You’re vulnerable, and you hide it with a brilliant mind, a sharp wit, and a wicked tongue so that no one can ever take advantage of it. you’re breakable. If the right person was to come along and touch you in just the right spot, you’d shatter and spend years trying to put yourself back together - only, of course, after you’d given up on everything for a month or two and left yourself there, in those glittering pieces of shattered you, just for the sake of being self-destructive for a while. You are convinced that the only people who want you are the wrong ones and that those that you want will never want you in return. you have become utterly determined to believe that everything will not work out in the end and you call yourself a realist in order to justify it.

You have a definition of love that goes beyond the dictionary and borders on the demanding - either that, or an amount of romanticism that can only be found among the pages of shakespeare. you create a battlefield of no more than words and tears and tense moments of nothingness; your silence is your greatest weapon, and you use it to your full advantage. If ever you’re made to talk more than you wanted to in the first place, you’re disgruntled and annoyed, then irritated and sarcastic and if they can get you to talk farther than that despite your every attempt to turn the guns upon them instead of facing down upon you, you become desperate and confused, and then nothing more than a broken boy that is completely lost because he has been left without direction.

The above, however, is nothing more than the flaws that I see in you and - without a doubt - ignore despite their overwhelming prominence. Maybe that’s why this took so long for me to write; to speak of you in every way that I see you is hard when every flaw you have is something that I love, and every commendable and brilliant quality is forcefully denied when spoken to.

You’re passionate. You’re driven. You have such a fucking brilliant mind. You have this way of explaining things that makes me understand so much more than I did, and makes me think in ways that I haven’t before. You have this practical way of looking at things and this astonishing talent for convincing anyone of anything and believe me, it scares me as much as it leaves me breathless. I always seem to find myself giving up the struggle to argue my point when i realize how much more I’d rather hear you prove me wrong time and time again.

You care so much more than you know how to say. You’re so stubborn that you refuse to believe anything until it is undeniably there and you can no longer push it away. You have your own twisted sort of logic that makes sense the second you begin to explain it because nothing else can compare to the way that you think. You know so much more than you ever say. You have so much to give the world, and you see so little of what you have.

You claim you’re nothing special, but there is so much about you that no one else can compete with. You’re that someone, that something. The sanity and the recklessness, the influence and the saving grace. You have this way of telling me things, and this way about you that simply says that everything is okay, and everything will be fine, and you are the only one. You are the only one who’s mere presence says: ‘It’s okay. I’m here. I’m right here. You’re okay.’ 
You, in the words of me.