Tell me you like my green hair, you think it’s sexy.

Tell me you think I’m funny, I make you laugh.

Tell me you feel all the things for me, I drive you crazy.

Tell me you see me taking care of the body you hold at night (unless it’s too hot so we just hold hands instead).

Tell me you can taste the honey I’ve been sliding along my tongue so my words don’t sting you even on my bad days. 

Tell me you notice how I’ve been keeping my socks and my hundreds of handbags and jackets and all the shit I don’t need off the floor (lately).

Tell me it makes you feel loved the way I freak out about packing our lunch so that we don’t eat nonsense all day.

Tell me you smile when you catch me dancing in the kitchen or in the shower or on my way to the couch.

Tell me I wouldn’t be the person you fell in love with without my strange sense of humor, my unpredictable pain-in-the-assness, all my unique strengths, and each and every flaw. 

Tell me you know loving all of me means 

even the bitter bitchiness lining my bruised 

but beating heart, 

means even the never-ending internal ramble about 

never being good enough, 

never being smart enough, 

never being strong enough, 

never being pretty enough, 

or never being enough enough to be loved by someone like you. 

Tell me you know me, 

and tell me you love me anyway.