I had somebody tell me once that I cannot love anybody else until I learned to love myself. And I laughed. This time, the sick joke was mine, was me. You’d be waiting forever I believe.
I remember hating myself age seven, diaries filled to the brim with criticisms by age eight. I had enough pages to stitch them into wings to fly close enough to the Sun so that my tears turn to steam, so that the wax can melt & burn on my shoulders & mold into thicker skin.
I was nine when I wanted to die. Twelve when I found a solution, I’d take a blade, smear blood over every page, & make believe I could feel my soul leaving my body every day.
At fifteen, I learned that if I wanted love, I’d have to lower my already low self worth. So I sought redemption by attempting to undo my birth. Forty by forty milligrams of Endep popped. They weren’t meant to find me. My first attempt was meant to be a successful suicide. I had already died so many times.
So when I told you that our love & our life had almost made life worth it. I did not lie. And when I told you that loving you almost makes me love myself too, my words were not untrue.
This is not poetry. Loving you is taking the love I could never give myself & putting it to good use. It is reassurance, notes to self to reflect & remind that if someone can love a dying thing this way? perhaps I can learn how to accept & acknowledge love exists if i so choose.
Before closing, let me state that despite believing in the words above, i believe in this too, that love will not heal me. love will not wipe my slate of a body clean. I will always be a woman of wounds but I love you enough to begin learning to love myself too.
© AleCat 2017