He is so beautiful.
I don’t understand how he could turn that perfect face towards me
and see beauty.
He tells me how gorgeous he thinks I am.
I don’t know how to believe him.
When I look at myself all I see
are the craters in my face left by the misfortune of puberty,
those few too many chips and cookies attached to my stomach and thighs,
the hair that never seems to stop growing all over my body,
and my ****** features that aren’t proportional to each other.
But he doesn’t see any of that.
He sees the story behind my scars and the strength it took to move forward.
He wants to know the story behind every pound on my body.
He says he loves to play with my long, hazel hair.
He kisses every part of my face when I say I hate it.
Every time he tells me how beautiful I am,
I want to believe him.
I just don’t know how.
When he kisses me, I hold my breath.
When he touches me, I watch the emotions flicker across his face.
When he says he loves me, I brace myself for impact.
I wait for him to leave like all the others before.
They always leave.
He says he never will,
but they always do and I know he will too.
He hasn’t yet, and these are the moments I live for.
The moments when he and I lie here just staring at the ceiling,
just talking about everything and nothing with the same words.
He is my entire world, but I fear he may just be nothing more than
a shooting star, entering and falling out of my life in mere seconds.