"i love myself, i love myself, i love myself"
you repeat it in your mind, thinking saying it enough will program your eyes to be satisfied with what appears in the mirror,
banging your head against the tile, convincing yourself that the thoughts you once had are no longer inhabiting your mind,
that you feel so secure in the skin you once wanted to tear off,
that you will kiss your scars goodnight and sing yourself lullabies to sleep, that you will be the one to nourish your body with the love it needs, that every situation will turn into a blessing,
you repeat it in your head, banging your head, over and over, and over, until you're so numb to it all, you shut down what its like to have feeling at all, and you stand in this false illusion of self love and positivity, until everything turns into nothing, leaving you completely senseless.

they say you become like the five people you are around the most.
i was constantly scared of finding undesirable pieces of me that were originally from someone else, their constant presence creating opportunities to create a magnetization between bodies, intertwining energies to create a few sparks, either benign or destructive.

the reason why my mind spent so many years on you was because of the admiration i held up to the way your mind appeared to function. the way you carried yourself, and the perseverance and joy for life you captured within. the knowledge you perused and the curiosity that fueled your interest in the beauty of cultures. the passion you cradled in the smile that spread across your face when you talked about something  you are passionate about. your qualities were pieces i would be delighted to find in myself, if our energies were to dissolve into each other, i would not be quick to separate myself like i have done with others. i did not want to romanticize you, and at this point there was nothing superficial about this infatuation, i did not want to write Shakespearean sonnets over your flesh, i wanted your soul to be the influence and muse to write like pablo neruda and paint like pablo picasso.

i had been finding it hard to let myself sleep.
my body has asked for it, eyelids turning heavy and letters becoming blurry, a mind slowly melting into a liquefied puddle of what i was feeling, trying to describe what i was experiencing inside constantly.

i remember when we did not sleep all night, we stared at each other and only blinked to shut our eyes to listen to a song better. you spilled words of admiration, knew how to unravel my strings and convinced me that i was beautiful. you told me you could've treated me better than exhibit a and b. our voices continued until sun mingled between the blinds, but for me that was the least of my worries, because that was a conversation worth sleep deprivation. you pleaded for me to leave the person who was not treating me right, and a couple weeks later you turned out the same.

i remember exhibit a. he also kept me awake, we stayed on the phone every night until the patterns of our breaths were peacefully asleep, and i heard him rustling around in sheets, our dreams intertwining into a life he chased with me. he tried to wrap me around his finger, and had a ring to prove it, and i guess mom was right when she said "everything happens for a reason" because it was lost one morning in new york. many hours of delayed sleep developed into the "love is blind" syndrome, and i lost myself in a cloud of fog which was your grasp. at one point you returned the ring and i keep it, dreaming of a coming of age moment where i throw into the ocean, to be calcified with meaningless treasure.

i sleep with half shut eyes, wanting to expel the memories, rewind a tape and push everyone away, grab sheets and bury my head inside, hoping these clicks on keys can sing me to sleep.

i live through photographs of perfect bodies and walked among worshipers of flesh, the ones who looked at curves and nooks before being drawn to a mindset.
i could not help but put down my own body because i did not follow the criteria for the checklist their eyes scanned the room for.  there was not really an area of me i could be proud of, except the person i am on the inside. i wanted to cocoon sheets around my body and feel eyes drawn to what i'm made of.  
i wanted someone to touch the slopes of my mind, kiss the laughter echoing within me, eyes fixated on the glimmer within, to constantly think about the way i am instead of the way i look.
sadly i knew no participants in life were like this, so i stared into space night and day thinking about the way i needed to drink another water bottle, tallying the ones i had already finished.
if i would be fine if i had sugar twice in one day,
if everything was going to build up in me and i'd become even more undesirable to they eye, if all the fat would go to the wrong places, and never fill me up to look like a woman in the eyes of mankind. being desired was the new admiration. i craved recognition for the person i was, but physicality was the only concern with the crowd, men receiving a social trophy for having the woman most lusted after.

you serenaded a soul with words my ears have never comprehended,
overused the concept of love, wringing the word out until it was left dry, there was a hope in me that the author in you would display himself for me as well, that your stanzas correlated to the feeling between us.
i was searching for the words in your mouth, my hands sinking in like a dentist on a mission, hoping to pry out the sudden surprise of a few letters from between your teeth, something to make me feel like there were still things to discovered, that you were not going to be like the others, but everything fit wrong, like when i had not worn my retainer in a week.