Don’t tell me I’m beautiful. I don’t feel beautiful.

Don’t tell me how beautiful I looked the night you saw me for the first time, where you stared at me for hours while I was in distress and you had no clue who I even was.

Sure I noticed you staring, but I couldn’t be bothered, my world was stumbling down and some guy looking at me wasn’t going to change that.

Now you know me a little more, don’t compliment my beauty. If you truly like me tell me you like how my mind works, tell me you like dark and twisted. Tell me you’re fascinated by my bizarre concepts, tell me they make sense. Tell me you understand.

Tell me it’s okay to be fucked up. Tell me it’s okay. Tell me you’ll hold me despite, and do so.

I’d stay for that, I’ll allow that.