I'm a modern woman.
I give so much love and healing words to others,
but leave myself empty until I'm bird bones.
Maybe one day I'll learn to be more tender and love myself like a painting worshipped in the Louvre.
I'll treat my body the way I treat a lover.
I'll kiss myself up and down until I go numb.
I'll feed myself the sweetest peaches, plums, and cherries.
I'll finally see all my curves as rivers and valleys blooming endlessly with flowers the color of the setting sun.
I know this is journey that cannot be rushed into,
but my mind is more stubborn than I am.
So I must learn to be patient,
I must learn to be kind,
I must learn to give myself a minute.
I'll fake it every day until one morning I'll wake up and see myself as soft,
as beautiful,
as elegant,
as powerful
as the Renaissance women worshipped in museums.
I've looked like them all this time.

I can make you feel loved,
I can take the weight of the world off your shoulder,
but only if you ask me to.
I can take you places,
fill all your blank spaces.
This love is silent,
so I don't speak a word
Because I am nothing like the moon.
My light will never be as bright.
I'm nothing that you'd admire from afar,
gazing at with wonder.
I thought I understood it.
That I could grasp the reality of it,
but you make it hard
because you're the stuff and dust dreams are made of.