I had a therapist tell me once how ironic it was how much love I gave out
because I didn't give much to myself
she laughed, like self love was a sick joke
I chuckled and cried at home
I had somebody tell me that I could not love somebody else unless I loved myself
this time I got to laugh
this time the sick joke was mine
it was me
might as well wait forever
I remember hating myself at the age of seven
diaries filled to the brim with criticism
I had enough pages to stitch them into wings
and fly close enough to the sun to see my tears turn to steam
felt the wax burn on my shoulders
and mold into thick skin
I was nine when I wanted to die
thirteen when I found a solution
figured if I could cut my legs enough
gravity would let me go
when it didn't I tied a rope around my neck and twisted it until I couldn't breathe
stars filled my eyes and I was almost gone that day
I almost convinced myself I'd done it
when I started writing
I smeared my blood on every page
to remind myself that everything beautiful has a consequence
I have died so many times
so when I told you loving you made life almost worth it I wasn't joking
If someone can love a dying thing this way
and give thanks to the way my body hold back
if someone can kiss the scars
Administer the pills
absorb the bad days
and wake up smiling next to me
then I can try to breathe again
because self love does not always comes first
or second
or even ever
I will always be a woman of wounds
a broken neck and melted skin
love will not heal me
but it will hold my hand if I ever heal myself
and it'll maybe teach me a joke that I can stay alive long enough for to laugh at