I still fail to
not do things for others over
myself.
Dedicating words to
special people.
I'm trying to love myself solely for once,
but I find the writers of
my life
are the one's
my mind's love
goes to, but I hold the pen.

Is that not loving myself?
When an unrequited hate for thy is met with a fiery excellence,
who protects thou in that exchange?
the cold embrace of night
that meets like
sheer edge on tender vital muscle?
the venomous tongue siphoning, spitting, to erode on sacred loyalty?
the nervous white rabbit in need of the slightest comforting space?
the abused puppy barking off advancements?
the cat hissing away touch?

heaven's coushined cloud?
embraced coat of arms?
love and all its subsidaries?