i used hold onto sadness like it was what kept me afloat, not what was drowning me in the first place. i thought my pain was poetic, that my self-hatred was what made me lovable. i’m not like that anymore. now, i don’t think about myself like a problem that needs solved or like something that needs to be glued back together. i treat myself like something precious, not something damaged. because i fought a war with myself, and i deserve to enjoy the spoils. but not everyone knows that, because my voice is still quiet and my eyes still look sad. i know what you think you see when you look at me, but i promise i'm not what you're looking for. you want a girl who looks at you like you’re the sun when she hasn’t seen the sky for weeks, but looks at her reflection like her body is a photo album billed with pictures that hurt to look at. who never has a kind word to spare for herself, but somehow always has enough for you. who will hold her body out to you like a white flag. that won't ever be me. i’m not as sweet as you want me to be and i’m meaner than you think. and i might not tell you to *******, but i sure as hell won’t *******. you want my thighs wrapped around you, but you don't know the work it took for me to love them so why should i let you? i’ve spent most of my life starving myself of self-worth, so now i eat vanity for breakfast. i've spent too long thinking you needed to be broken to be loved, but i now i know that that isn't true. you want someone you can rescue, but i can do that myself. so don’t think my doe eyes mean that i’m just a fawn who need your shelter, because you might be a maple tree, but i’m the whole **** forest.