Every time you look at me, I have to ask myself: What the hell am I going to do with you? And my answers become muddled and jumbled and petrified like wood. I just want to hold you and tell you everything will be okay and I want you to be happy and I want you to be successful and I want you to get your life back because I don’t care who you are or what you did, and I don’t care what happened. I love you anyways.
You make me believe love can be unconditional.
I sit here believing that you’re good, and kind. It would be so much easier if you proved me wrong.