I had 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
and cried at home.
I had someone tell me once,
I could not love anyone else
until I learn 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 finally found the solution,
figured if I cut my legs enough
gravity would let me go.
When I 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,
the fade.
I'd almost convinced myself I'd done it.
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 second.
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 can 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.
I love you enough to want to love myself too.
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Thanks for reading hope it helped some of you!!!!
-Greyc out ✌🏾✌🏾
