Genuine like a child
Candid like an open book
Exotic like The Wild
Reassuring like a second look

is not a rose. I cannot
water it and see it
grow. I cannot pluck it and
place it in a vase/look at
its pretty face.

My heart
is not a kitten, I can
hold in my hands, stroking it,
and have it fall
asleep with a tummy full
of cream into a velvet dream.

My heart
is not the sun. But it burns
me. I cannot
absorb the warmth of a July
day or shine in the light –
my skin is thin but still
covers it in shade.

My heart
is not an apple
I can bake into a pie
and serve it up
with ice-cream on the side.

My heart
is an itch. But I cannot
scratch it. It’s broken
in pieces. But I cannot piece them
back together.  If so, I'd bead them on a string
and wear them all as charms in a bracelet
around my arms.

If I was a friend to myself,
I'd tell me "come over"
and I'd lean out my shoulder.

If I was a friend to myself,
I'd have tissues in both hands
and I'd be kind and understand.

If I was a friend to myself,
I'd take my side for a change
and I'd create a safe haven
where my demons couldn't hang.

But I tell myself I am a failure
for getting so down,
comparisons fill my mind up with sound
I'd never be this tough on anyone else,
So why is it okay to spew
this endless hate to myself?

If I was a friend to myself,
I'd suggest we take a walk
and let the fresh air restore
what we had lost.

just let me catch my breath
it’s been 22 years and i haven’t been able to keep down a morning breakfast yet
it’s been so long,
i now address you as my friend but please anxiety, stop following me to bed
a lullaby of all our mistakes
the morning birds scream in my face
can i just have one day to myself?
free of anxiety and everything else

going home isn’t always
returning to a place.
sometimes
it is returning to yourself.

Sorry,
I love myself more.