the red slashes on your hips intersected at angles to form letters
of words that you thought were worthy of being sliced into your skin
but you're nothing close to disgusting
you're beautiful and captivating and kind
and I know you're afraid that I will love you less
when I see you at your worst but I promise
that I will wait for you when you take hours to feel pretty, even though I think you already are
and I will still kiss you when you have the smell of onions on your breath
and I will still love you with blood rushing down your legs because you hate yourself and you can't do anything right
and I will still think you're perfect when the scale reads higher than it did last Wednesday
and I will still comfort you when you scream at night because of the hauntings that come with closed eye lids and fading consciousness
and I will still hold you when you're crying so hard that you can't speak.
I hope that I am never the cause for why you consider these things
to be flaws (and I know that I cannot stitch you up or save you with love) but I hope that I can help the insecurities fade, like the scars on your hips.