if i was an artist,
i would have painted myself a set of beautiful eyes,
a glowing skin,
hair of a princess,
an hourglass looking body,
a pretty version of me.

if i was an artist,
i would have drawn myself with plumper lips,
a pair of longer legs,
a better version of what i saw in the magazines

but i am not,
so i will just settle with
this

with who i am
instead of who i wanted to be

my roots are growing in ashy
i can't stop looking at my acne scars

i taste everything good in me
and lick the sin off my fingers

but no one told me that loving myself
would be this exhausting

i will write poetry for myself
admiring all the imperfections
just like people do with art

the thing about me is

i know that i am worth it
yet the voices in my head are telling me otherwise
there are thorns piercing my fragile heart
and with every insult and hurtful word
the thorns dig deeper
the voices scream louder
the light in my eyes fade slowly
as does the *** of gold at the end of the rainbow
as does the light at the end of the tunnel
my voice is hoarse and desperate
i know i am screaming for the light to stay
it's trying to
it's screaming back at me
darkness fills the room
it's pitch black and
i don't see the light anymore

the thing about me is

i settle for coal when in fact
i deserve scintillating diamonds

I am myself
I am myself
I am myself

I am not construction paper torn in two.

I am not a metaphor.

I am myself.

One day, that will be enough.