A painting of me

Let Me Love You. ⇒

   16 October 2014, evening time

A couple of months ago a very good friend of mine turned to me as if she had a deep secret. She premised the statement with shame. It was one of those non-verbal cues of uncomfortable realization that I inherently understood. Rendering her incapable of mouthing the full words for a few moments, blistering her sentences with falters and a fusillade of, “how do I?” and then, “okay, so—” and then pausing, again, until finally, she said—“I don’t like it when people compliment you. I feel strange about myself when someone does.”

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