I trust you with my weird because I think you’re secretly just as strange as I am. All that I’ve told you and all that I’ve said pours out of me, slowly but fiercely like hot lava.
Because you laughed when I told you about that time I shit behind a dumpster because I couldn’t make it to the toilet on a roadtrip to Montreal.
Because you’re almost 7 feet tall and you’re scared of dogs and the dark. It’s adorable and one of the funniest things I’ve seen in my entire existence.
Because you found out I was a 20 year-old virgin and you took it slow, for my sake more than yours. (You better stick it in soon though, I’m getting impatient.)
Because you like it when I’m the big spoon, even though you won’t tell me. I don’t mind; I’ll big spoon the shit out of you, especially if I can tuck my hand in the elastic band of your boxers.
Because you know what’s going on in my brain, especially when I don’t. That scares the living Jesus out of me, but I think it’s one of the reasons that I need you so much.
Because I licked your face the first time you tried to kiss me. And you still kissed me after that. We both panicked. But it’s okay. Kissing you is a billion times better now that I’ve gotten over myself.
Because you wear those sweatpants with the giant hole in the leg, mostly because I hate them. But I wear my ripped sweats in public to piss you off, too.
Because Stephen King made you love reading, and I love Stephen King for that. (Even though I’ve never read even one of his novels.)
Because I made you cum on my face the first time I went down on you. You got caught off-guard because you didn’t think I heard you mention it one evening, weeks before. It was funnier than I expected.
Because I know you so well, but there’s so much you won’t say yet. It scares me that I tell you everything even though I sometimes feel like you tell me nothing.
Because you’re the first person I texted pictures of my tits to, and now I can’t stop. It silently hurts my feelings when you don’t respond. I wonder if you’re tired of them.
Because you hate my roommate but didn’t shit on her bed when you had the chance. I’m glad you didn’t though. You don’t know, but the bed she’s using is the one you and I stayed up all night in, the first time you slept over. Shitting on it would have ruined those memories.
Because I asked you to sing the Stars Wars theme song when I went down on you. And you did. You fucked it up when you came, but I’ll let that slide.
Because you don’t make fun of me for loving Harry Potter, even though I never let you forget about your Yu-Gi-Oh! phase. Hufflepuff likes it rough.
Because you’re scared to hurt me, but I so blindly believe that you won’t. You’ve torn my emotions recklessly, and you’re going to again. But I’m still here. My trust for you sometimes feels like self-mutilation.
Because you want to watch Monsters Inc. just as much as I do. When I ask you to drive two hours to the nearest movie theatre with me next week- I hope you say yes.
Because when you’re scared or angry with yourself, I think you trust me. You black out, but you’ve never made me feel scared of you when you’re in that dark place.
Because when I get insecure about my body, you smother those uncertain thoughts with ones of your own. Big nipples for the win! And I promise you that your cum tastes only slightly reminiscent of your workout supplements.
Because I call you out on your fuck-up’s.
Because you call me out on mine.
Because we both know what’s going on but neither of us have the balls to say anything. Except for that time when your balls were in my mouth and I mentioned commitment. But we haven’t talked about that since.
I trust you with my weird because I’ve cried a rivers worth of tears over you and still you are my last thought before bed. I trust you with my weird because you almost let me stick my finger in your butt. I trust you with my weird because I’m not ready to let go yet.