For the Unfinished Heart
A love letter to those still becoming
No, you do not have to love yourself first.
That lie was born from fear,
from people too timid to touch what isn’t neat,
too frightened to love something still in progress.
You do not need to be a finished masterpiece
to be seen as art.
You are allowed to be the painting still wet,
the heart still trembling in its frame.
Love is not sterile.
It does not wait outside the door until you’ve cleaned your wounds.
It walks in, blood on its hands,
and says, I’ve seen worse, stay still, I’m not leaving.
Healing does not always come before love.
Sometimes love is the thing that holds the bandage in place.
Sometimes it’s the mirror that shows you the pieces
you thought were too ugly to keep.
Sometimes it’s the first quiet breath you take
after years of holding your own throat.
Love is not reserved for the whole.
It belongs to the raw,
to the half-broken,
to the ones who keep showing up
with their hearts still learning how to beat without fear.
You can love and still ache.
You can be terrified and still be worthy.
You can be in pieces and still be someone’s peace.
Because love isn’t a trophy you earn once you’re fixed,
it’s the fire that softens the metal,
the storm that cleans the wound,
the hand that stays when every instinct says run.
It isn’t “I’ll love you when I’m better.”
It’s “I’ll love you while I’m becoming.”
It’s “I’ll hold you even if my hands shake.”
It’s “I’ll try, and keep trying, until trying feels like home.”
Love is not the prize at the end of healing.
It is the healer.
It is not the light that waits for you to be ready.
It is the match that strikes in your darkness
and whispers, come closer anyway.
So come, imperfect and honest.
Come with your cracks, your chaos, your trembling.
Come with the parts of you that still bleed when touched.
You are not too much.
You are not too broken.
You are the proof that love does not need perfection,
only presence.
And those who are brave enough to love while they are still learning,
they are the architects of tenderness,
the builders of faith,
the living gospel of what it means
to rise while you’re still burning.
About the Creator
Echoes By Juju
Writer, poet, and myth-maker exploring the spaces between love, ruin, and rebirth.
Author of "The Fire That Undid The World".
I write like I bleed, in verses sharp as bone, sacred as sin, burning like a heretic’s prayer.
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Comments (2)
Even without flashy words, this hits deep a sign of pure, honest writing.
Even without flashy words, this hits deep a sign of pure, honest writing.