For the longest time
I could not find
compassion in
my frenzied mind
for any of my past selves.

Now, as I recall
the gloom
of a sun bare room,
where the
curtain
swept
back and forth
like a broken broom
brushing up
more dust
for all of us
to inhale,

the thin spindles
of spider webs
above my head
whilst I lie in bed
contemplating
how bad
I wished that I was dead,

the late night runs
as If I thought
I could escape from
the pain that
would always come,

the hours of lifting weights
because of my lack of self-love,

of reading for hours straight
to dull and distract myself
from that longing ache
that made me break
when I would wake
in tears,

all those years
passed and I have forgotten
the pain that my isolation brought on.

I was so cruel
and unforgiving,
angry and unrelenting
in my self-loathing
and former forms
of self-flagellation.

Time plus distance
has lessen the intenseness
of those moments,
and I have found more temperance
in my temperament,
allowing myself enough room
to finally forgive him,
the person who I have not been
for over ten
to twenty years.