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Abstract

ours a bowl of freshly picked raspberries and delights in the smell of fresh-cut grass.</p><p id="ea1a">The me that gets frustrated when I can’t open the pickle jar. The me that becomes irritated when I’m out of tea and learn that my favorite tea store isn’t open on Sundays. The me that gets mad when I sit in the bathroom stall only to discover it’s out of TP. The me that drops the f-bomb when they pull the goalie at the end of a hockey game because it never f*ing works.</p><p id="f857">The me that often gets tongue-tied when I try to speak then interrupts when I finally find the words I want to say. The<i> me</i> that then must retract those same words because they still aren’t quite right. The me that now wishes she would’ve read more in her youth so her vocabulary was bigger.</p><p id="72c7">The me that insists the bed be made neatly each morning so I don’t lie down at night on rumpled sheets.</p><p id="d14a">The me that want the sheets to begin smooth and end up rumpled.</p><p id="859f">The me that organizes the spice rack alphabetically and don’t you dare mess it up by sticking the basil by the tarragon. The me that can’t tolerate the smell of root beer or the taste of cantaloupe.</p><p id="4718">The me that dances in the kitchen to old BeeGees tunes and beckons you to join in. The me that annoyingly recites lines from Bugs Bunny and hopes you’ll giggle at them, too. The me that playfully smacks your ass with a damp rolled-up towel.</p><p id="f17a">The me that wants to be held tight when I’m sad and kissed just because. The me

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that longs to be scooped up and spooned in the middle of the night. The <i>me</i> that feels things deeply and loves even deeper.</p><p id="1464">So if you know all of this about me — know all of who I am — and still tell me I’m beautiful, I’ll become even more so because I’ll know that you see me. Not just how I look. Not just who I am on the outside. Not just my shell.</p><p id="5ce6">All of me. The real me.</p><p id="ec3c">And that’s what touches my heart.</p><p id="3235"><a href="undefined">kasey sparks</a>, © 2021</p><p id="e548"><i>Thank you for reading. To quote Ram Dass, “We’re all just walking each other home.” If you’d like to join me on the journey, click <a href="https://kaseysparks.medium.com/subscribe">here</a>. If you’d like to access thousands of writers and their soul-stirring stories on Medium, click <a href="https://kaseysparks.medium.com/membership">here</a>.</i></p><div id="eac2" class="link-block"> <a href="https://kaseysparks.medium.com/will-real-death-be-anything-like-la-petite-mort-2b6a405e2343"> <div> <div> <h2>Will Real Death Be Anything Like La Petite Mort?</h2> <div><h3>If so, what a grand afterglow awaits us all.</h3></div> <div><p>kaseysparks.medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*PKjHzKC8ywLyrqf1U-4zcw.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

BEING KNOWN

Wanna Touch My Heart?

Then don’t tell me I’m pretty.

Words matter. The words you use to describe me matter.

So if you want to touch my heart, don’t tell me I’m pretty.

Tell me I’m beautiful.

Pretty means my skin looks good. That my teeth are straight and pearly white. Pretty means I’ve mastered hair and makeup 101, which I know for a fact I haven’t.

Pretty defines my shell. My face. My body. It characterizes how I look on the outside.

But beauty described my whole being. It encompasses all of me — mind, body, and soul. Beauty is about who I am on the inside. It’s about how I treat people. It’s about how I view the world. It’s about the thoughts that dance in my head and the words that trickle from my lips.

If you tell me I’m beautiful it means you know me and still think I’m okay. The real me. The me and all my quirks and imperfections.

The me that smiles at the daily play of light on my back porch steps. The me that cries as I lie on my back at the end of a good yoga session. The me that devours a bowl of freshly picked raspberries and delights in the smell of fresh-cut grass.

The me that gets frustrated when I can’t open the pickle jar. The me that becomes irritated when I’m out of tea and learn that my favorite tea store isn’t open on Sundays. The me that gets mad when I sit in the bathroom stall only to discover it’s out of TP. The me that drops the f-bomb when they pull the goalie at the end of a hockey game because it never f*ing works.

The me that often gets tongue-tied when I try to speak then interrupts when I finally find the words I want to say. The me that then must retract those same words because they still aren’t quite right. The me that now wishes she would’ve read more in her youth so her vocabulary was bigger.

The me that insists the bed be made neatly each morning so I don’t lie down at night on rumpled sheets.

The me that want the sheets to begin smooth and end up rumpled.

The me that organizes the spice rack alphabetically and don’t you dare mess it up by sticking the basil by the tarragon. The me that can’t tolerate the smell of root beer or the taste of cantaloupe.

The me that dances in the kitchen to old BeeGees tunes and beckons you to join in. The me that annoyingly recites lines from Bugs Bunny and hopes you’ll giggle at them, too. The me that playfully smacks your ass with a damp rolled-up towel.

The me that wants to be held tight when I’m sad and kissed just because. The me that longs to be scooped up and spooned in the middle of the night. The me that feels things deeply and loves even deeper.

So if you know all of this about me — know all of who I am — and still tell me I’m beautiful, I’ll become even more so because I’ll know that you see me. Not just how I look. Not just who I am on the outside. Not just my shell.

All of me. The real me.

And that’s what touches my heart.

Thank you for reading. To quote Ram Dass, “We’re all just walking each other home.” If you’d like to join me on the journey, click here. If you’d like to access thousands of writers and their soul-stirring stories on Medium, click here.

Will Real Death Be Anything Like La Petite Mort?

If so, what a grand afterglow awaits us all.

kaseysparks.medium.com