Dearest Thomas

He doesn’t try to fix me, nor attempt to change who I am as a person.

He doesn’t try to coerce me into his views—like that of a man who demands to be nothing but right.

He doesn’t try to change my appearance to imply my skirt is too short, my shoulders are too revealed, my breasts are to not be presented at the slightest.

He doesn't try to force an unwanted choice into my hands, to thrust me into a decision of his own.

He doesn’t try to do anything but love me wholly, as a woman.

As a woman, I know he will treat me like nothing more than a beautiful female, not a simple-minded child.

As a woman, I am independent in that of my thoughts and actions, with him by my side not in front.

As a woman, I know I have a companion, not a prohibition, or a ruler over my mentality in the false sense of help and to somehow better me.

As a woman, I trust he will only heighten what is here already, not condemn me for what I am not—force me to his ideals over what I can be.

As a woman, I can be determined to be on my own, but I love him all the same.

I love him all the same, the way he caresses my thigh when I cannot sleep as my mind seemingly whirls away, the nightmares that plague.

I love him all the same, for his unwavering strength when my sadness somehow takes over the logic that was once there.

I love him all the same, that school-boy cheeky smile, teeth bared, eyes glazed, when he knows he has raised my spirits, that heartwarming and safe smile.

I love him all the same, for his generosity and kindness, the way he willingly jumps free from the warm covers, mid-winter, to hunt down a shop to aid my crying stomach.

I love him all the same, for the fact that he has done nothing that doubts that I can trust him; I can trust my Dear Thomas.