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  • Baby, I want you to tell me things. Like that it will always be this good. That you’ll always fit this well in my arms (you on the left, me on the right). That we’ll never take this for granted, and that we’ll always say the things we say out loud.

    Tell me that when we change, it will be for the better, that it will bring us closer together; that we’ll fucken dive deeper each time there’s an inflection.

    Baby, you know by now pieces of the checkered past – how I’ve been treated like shit, too. I’ve told you about the times when a lover called me a faggot for sleeping with a man in my youth, about the time she tried to strangle me, about the times I separated my skin with a blade, the times I shook my brain with a frying pan.

    I told you that I haven’t been the best, that I’ve fucked things, too, gone to bed with others when the timing was off, which is to say I was not in a relationship with that person, but was in a relationship. I told you, and I told you why – the truth is hard, but the lies, fucken Christ, they are, too. So I’m trying to be done with the lies –that’s the one thing you’ve asked of me. I’m a work in progress, love.

    Tell me there’s building to do – tomato plants there, trust and confidence here. Tell me you’ll hold my hand as we go. I stumble, a lot, you know, tell me you’re patient, you’re forgiving, and kind.

    This one’s selfish, sweetheart. Tell me this one thing I want to hear: that I’ll be this happy when I die. I want to be holding you as I go.
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