* the following is from awhile ago. I love myself. don't worry :)
I had a therapist tell me once,
it was ironic how much love I gave out
cuz I didn’t give much to myself.
like self-love was a sick joke.
and cried at home.
I had someone tell me once,
I could not love anyone else
until I learn to love myself.
I got to laugh.
The sick joke
Might as well wait forever.
I remember hating myself at the age of seven,
journals filled to the brim with criticisms. The standard was set too high.
I had enough pages to stitch them into wings
to fly close enough to the sun
to see my tears turn to steam,
felt the wax burn on my shoulders
and mold into thick skin.
I was nine when Anxiety filled my chest
My new best friend came in the fall.
Depression. Anxiety. And me.
Thirteen i accepted the fight for peace
Was one I had to fight alone with the Holy Spirit as my one and only weapon
I knew so well from childhood
That I was called to live and not die
The death of Jesus was so real to me at 4
Nailed to the cross for me
Your death instead of mine
Beyond the call of practical love
This was radical
heard my heartbeat pound in my ears
like a warning drum,
I’d almost convinced myself I’d done it.
When I started writing,
I smeared my blood on every page
to remind myself
that everything beautiful has a consequence.
I’d hoped to stall the clotting
long enough to give myself to the craft
and let myself go.
I have died so many times.
So when I told you
that loving you almost makes life worth it
I was not joking.
When I tell you
That loving you almost
makes me forget how much I hate myself,
It is not poetry.
Loving you is taking
all of the love I could never give myself
and putting it to good use.
It is reminding myself that
if someone can love a dying thing this way,
can hold the Lazarus of my body
and give thanks for the way it holds back -
if someone can kiss the scars
administer the pills
absorb the bad days
and wake up smiling next to me,
then I can try to breathe again.
Because self-love does not always come first.
Or even ever.
But your love be the guardrail on the edge
be the drawers that hide all the sharp things
be the body that carries my collapsed frame into bed
be the flowers you bought;
because even though they are dying too
they still dance.
Love will not heal me,
will not wipe my slate of my body clean -
I will always be a woman of wounds
of rope-mark neck
and melted skin.
Love will not heal me;
but it will hold my hand if I ever heal myself
and maybe teach me a joke
that I can stay alive long enough to laugh at.