There are times when I hate myself.
Loathe and abhor myself because I’m not worthy of anything, especially love.
In these moments there’s a secret desire.
To be held and told about what goodness might be lurking within me.
Just hold me and tell me I’m beautiful, even though I’ll argue that I’m not.
Hold me and tell me that I have value, even though I’ll argue that I don’t.
And especially, hold me and tell me that you’re happy I’m in your life.
Even though I won’t believe you.
Because maybe, just maybe, I eventually will.