Monologue

I love you. Even if you don't believe me, I'll say it. I love you. Even if you don't say it back, I'll say it. I love you. Even if it makes you hate me, I'll say it. I love you, and I would do anything in the world to be who you wish I was, so that you could love me, too.1

I tried so hard to be a better person for you. Last weekend I mowed the backyard. Half an acre of grass. I weeded the garden, folded laundry, cleaned the kitchen, walked the dog, and made cookies. I played photographer when we went fishing. I pretended to know everything about my camera; lighting, composition. I went out to dinner with you. I joked with you. I helped you. I made your life a little bit easier, and when I finished mowing the backyard, you said "mow the front". When I finished weeding, you said "plant some seeds". When I took pictures of you, you said "take pictures of them". So I did. Last weekend I did everything you wanted. I was everything you wanted. And I think I cried more last weekend then my whole life.2

And in the end, all I learned from trying to change myself is that I can't. We're born with all the potential we'll ever have, and I've used all mine up. I'll never be a better person because I can't be a better person. But for you, I'll keep trying.3

I'll keep mowing the lawn. I'll keep weeding and planting, cooking and cleaning. I'll keep trying to be who you wish I was, because if I can convince you to love me, then maybe I can love me, too.
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