Tell me that I am special. Tell me that I am attractive. Tell me that the thing that I wrote made you feel something other than disgust or pity. Tell me that you will hold my hand. Tell me that you will hold me and that I can rest my head here in your lap and close my eyes and you will play with my hair and that it’s okay if my head accidentally brushes against your breasts, that you don’t mind, that you even like it. Tell me that it’s okay that I cry too much and I feel too much and I don’t do enough and that I am good enough and that I am enough that I am enough that I am enough just as I am even if nothing ever changes and I never do anything of any recognition and that you will still hold my hand. Tell me that I can fall asleep right here and rest as long as I need and that you will stay and that I am safe and that you are safe and that I make you feel safe. Tell me that I feel like home. Tell me that I feel like home. Tell me that you aren’t going anywhere and that I can fall apart and I can be in pieces and I can not know what I need or if I will ever get put back together and you will still be here. Tell me that you will hold me. Tell me that you are home. Tell me that I am enough. Please, just tell me.
