Not many people.

My dearest, when you speak with a sob behind a laugh I want nothing more than to gather you up in my arms and shield you from everyone else. Not many people make me feel that. And I would. You try to make yourself vomit when you are drunk (do you do it every day too, I wonder) and I would take your fingers from your clawed throat without being too precious about it. I'll tell you you're beautiful, clever, popular and kind, all of those things that you truly are. I liked to hold your chapped rough hands, they're useful hands. I'd wipe away your tears oft shed, and I would let you cry them onto me, because it is important to be allowed to cry sometimes, and then we could be quiet together like we always are.

Your propensity for self-flagellation makes me want to remove whatever it is you're beating yourself with perpetually and soothe it with cool calm words and caresses.