they say love yourself more, as if it’s easy like flipping on a switch in the bedroom
and looking around to see how lovely the objects inside of you are.

the glass side table clumsily polished,
like the screen of my eyes reflecting someone’s transformed image
as it passes through and turns,
a little scratched on the corner.

the lights inside you will glow and show your true self
as if your true self is not also an object that takes in the years of
being told something else.
take down the posters that keep you covered
as if it doesn’t also peel away the paint and walls to expose your skeleton.

here is the vastness of my room,
the loveliness of my true self,
the hollowed chamber of a chest that burns,
fallen over objects,
awaiting the switch.