I grew up believing
that because I was poor
I didn't deserve love.

Bullied for the smell
of my dad's cigarettes
on my clothes.

Bullied for the size
of my house
and that it had holes.

Told by someone who said they loved me
that I should stop dreaming about college
because my family could never afford it.

Then I met you

I hadn't let anyone
into my parents house
in years
(I was too embarrassed).

But I let you in.
I let you meet them.
I let you see the house I was raised in.

Stink, and all.
Mess, and all.
Holes, and all.

And you loved me anyways
I didn't need money to impress you
I didn't need to be anything that I am not
and never will be.

Because you love me
Holes and all.

Write me
sweet nothings
and bring me
little cakes.

Talk to me
like you've never spoken before
and you're drowning
in things to say.

Tell me how much I mean to you
but don't just tell me
show me.

Write me your sweet, sweet nothings.
And bring me your soul on a
silver platter.