They don't mean to do it, do they? I read, and my life feels lackluster. I read, and I feel poor. I read, and I wish I could pull off their grace and joy, their class and wit. I read and feel damaged and damaging. I read and feel my heart break as I am so fully and acutely aware of my fissures that threaten to give way and expose everything. Do they have those too? Do they always live in a world of vintage class, doting motherhood and unadulterated bliss? Do they ever cry and relentlessly hurl angry darts of pain and self-deprecation into their hearts and wonder if they are all alone?
Writing is aloe-vera to my sunburned, blistered heart. I already feel better. Who am I to cry over their fresh brushed, dentist-cleaned, plaque removed, with extra whitener smile? Why compare that to my own that might, just now, have morning breath, freshly eaten Oreos, or shag carpet because I ate too many sweets? I go to the dentist. I brush my teeth. Just because I have cilantro in my smile now and then doesn't mean that my smile is not pretty. We all have our morning breath moments, including them.
Let it go. I have loved my words. And I will love them still.