The first time a boy told me he liked me
I was 19
I had never heard those words before
foreign to ears that endured
nineteen years of crosshatched scars
on my self-esteem
from broken records screaming
things that made my knees weak
years of you’re not worth it
made me think that no boy
would ever see me as anything
but ugly written repeatedly
on brittle bones.
What was worse
was when I told him we wouldn’t work
afraid that no one could ever love me
when they saw the disease growing in my mind
self-hatred against darkening rage
for a world that never understood
what it meant to be less than its expectations
it was letting myself down
denying sunshine into my mind
that spread lies like stars in the sky
whispering things I misinterpret as truth
wondering why there is a war against
my brain and my body
rotting with the thought
that I would die alone
against black landscape
that would someday swallow me whole