- I had a therapist tell me once, it was ironic how much
love I gave out 'cause I didn't give
much to myself. She laughed, like self-love was
a sick joke. I chuckled then cried at home. I had someone tell me once, I could not love anyone else until I learned to love myself. This time, I got to laugh. This time,
the sick joke was mine. Was me. Might as well wait forever. I remember hating myself
at the age of seven. Journals filled to the brim
with criticisms by eight, 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 I wanted to die. Thirteen when I found
a solution. Figured, If I could cut my legs enough,
gravity would let me go. When it didn't, I tied a
pillowcase around my neck, twisting like the rope swings
I knew so well from childhood. Heard my heartbeat pound in my
ears like a warning drum, then fade. 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 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 second... or even ever. But your love be the
guardrail on the ledge. Be the drawers that hide all
of 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 a body clean. I will always be a
woman of wounds. Of rope-marked neck and melted skin. Love will not heal me but it will hold my hand
if I ever heal myself. And maybe teach a joke that I can stay alive long
enough to laugh at. I love you, enough to want
to love myself too.
