Do you want me as much as I want you?

And I don’t mean in the physical, “I want to ******* way”

I mean in the “I want to hold your hand and fall asleep with you and while you slumber tell you not how beautiful you are to me but how beautiful you are to the world and how you deserve someone much better, fitter, prettier, smarter, better, than me and hope you can hear well in your dreamland and then tell you how I want you to make me feel like the only star in the universe, the one that shines brightest but that will never burn out, to make me feel like the one who deserves everything you tell her in the pitch of the night, but I also want you to tell me these things in the daylight when I can show you those three scars on my arm, when you can see every single blemish that I refuse to cover up on my acne-riddled face, when the cellulite between my thighs and covering my once-thin tummy jiggles while I laugh at the silly jokes you tell me to cover up the fact that we both are terrified at being hurt again and what I want the most is for you to read this terrible poem and tell me I’m not crazy for wanting these things because you want them too" sort of way.

Three-thousand memories ago I once wrote the line, “I’m tragically in love with the idea of you” but I’ve moved past that. I’m at the point where I’m just praying you aren’t in love with an idea of me, because believe me, it’s twisted, it’s warped, it’s a facade. I hope that as soon as you realize I am Jess The Mess you don’t run away screaming, because I sure as hell would.