I feel ugly today. Outside and in. My inner critic leaves claw marks. I need you to extinguish me when I come aflame. I need reminding that my face is not the physical manifestation of my soul. I need the primal comfort of being touched and touching, of being known and knowing. I need you. My words are falling flat. Cliché-ridden. Pretentious. Dull. I always feel that way, but today it’s stronger. I feel trapped in my own body. I feel I’m living a life of repetitions. I feel crippled, and I miss you. I know I’ll see you in the dining hall, but it’s never soon enough.
I want to show you my favourite films and songs, to cull every scrap of beauty I can from this world and roll it up together to give you. You make me glad to be alive, and I want you. All of you. Your golden lands and lights and sounds and lips and teeth and fingertips. I’m reaching out for you the way flowers grow towards light.
I feel better just thinking about you. I’ll see you in the dining hall, gorgeous.”
— Benedict Smith, Letter #8