Wear that crown and wear it proudly.

She doesn’t listen to my words because of the friction within her heart. What I wonder aloud, she wonders too; but what I declare she barely feels.

Sometimes, her locks sweep past her shoulders–sometimes auburn, sometimes curled. When she cries, her cheeks get pink–a rosy hue the same accessory on any color skin. When she’s frustrated, she rakes a hand through her cropped hair–sometimes black, sometimes blonde, sometimes longer and sometimes straight. When she’s mad she shouts, punches something soft, or cries again. When she’s happy oh, does she feel it–but sometimes she doesn’t; she gets distracted or knows there’s more to come.

She looks into the glass at times and can see her softened self. But other times she merely glances, refusing to wonder and drink in the depth of her own eyes. And when it’s bad enough, she’ll cover her head, or tangle her hair, or clutch her stomach because of how undeserving she thinks she is.

I tell her a thousand times how the crown will always fit but it’s like my words are simply thoughts that drown with the million others.

When she was in love, she saw it every day. Some days it was gold and glimmered like the glitter in her eyes. Sometimes it was silver, encrusted with diamonds and bordered with ornate foliage. And some days, she didn’t even care to look because she could feel it in her beam, when she twiddled with her waves, or when her cheek would rest along her palm and she could feel the warmth of its blush.

I miss her when she was that way; when I didn’t have to convince her of how great she is because she undoubtedly felt it. And even now she knows. But she can’t feel it. And she’s the kind that has to feel what she believes.

She’s felt it too. And her. And her. Her? Oh, of course. Some just hide it better than others.

Their hair is different. Their eyes too, contrast. But their hearts were once innocent and felt it all before. They’ve felt that weightlessness of a crown that became too heavy. And upon touching what they couldn’t feel, they felt the pain of everything they’d ever lost.

It took a while for her eyes to finally find mine again. I knew then––with those irises of every shade I’ve ever seen––what she needed. I told her then, to believe in something different.

And now, she believes in healing. She perseveres every dawn to rise with the sun so that she too may one day reclaim that glorious shine.

Her tenacity to be better shines all on its own, even when she doesn’t sense its warmth. She cries, she aches, she ponders what every breathing color loses sense to, but nonetheless she smiles and tries to hope once more.

She is everything all at once and too much for those who don’t deserve her. And sometimes, she really doesn’t know just how beautifully she wears that crown.

But I’ll remind her. Even when my voice gets lost with all the others. Even when hope is lost for those who cannot hear. Even when she already knows.

I’ll always tell her.

Because what’s better than looking in a mirror and seeing all the best things about yourself everyday?

Not a damn thing.

So wear that crown and wear it proudly.

-Kiran Bains Sahota