take hand in mine
look square in the eye and say:
you've been quiet all night. yesterday too.
baby, i love you and no matter what you have to say
i will love you.
squirming, trying to  be willed out of skin.
apprehensively opening mouth to **** in a sharp breath.
and they say:
baby i... baby i... baby i just HATE MY *****. and i have been so scared to tell you because i know how much you love them and i love you so much that i just couldn't bear making you sad and it's not that i wanna be a 'boy' or anything like that i just hate my *****. they're not pretty like yours. my ******* aren't centered and they point out like an extra set of arms from my body so maybe if i had beautiful ***** like yours then, then i would like them.
pausing to **** in a second jagged breath.
continue to hold quaking hand, gripping skin a ghastly white.
i say:
baby, i know.  i know you hate your *****.
and that's okay with me.
as long as it's okay with you
that i love them so much.
deal?
heavy exhale, hue returning:
*deal.

it is unbearably human to have thoughts of feeling insanely inadequate.

it is within one's own power to change self-depricating thoughts.

one's insecurities are a reflection of everyone else's realities.

A Child .
Tender
And
Fresh.

Unmarked by time
Markings of time take on many forms
A scar from the time you went on a family vacation to the mountains and you fell and a giant rock got stuck in your knee.
Creases in your forehead from fretting over how you are going to pay this month’s rent.

Tired eyes.

Revisit the Child.
Tender
And
Fresh.

Feel the warmth of their body as they lovingly place their delicate tender hands
so carefully on each of your marked cheeks.
Their weight in your lap keeps you grounded, keeps you present.  

So to be in the presence of a child
Is a brilliant thing.

let’s talk about the universe.
insignificance
can either make you feel
very
significant
or it can
**not.