Self love will always be
And will always be a struggle
It's the constant acceptance
Of you lacking, of your own flaws
It's the dissonance between
Settling for what's in store or
Trying to see what's for more

Self love is about
Answering the screams you hear
Inside your head once everything
Has settled and calmed

Self love is about
Addressing your fears, of what is
Keeping you awake at night

Self love is about
Letting your tears fall, letting your
Emotions take over every while
For self love is not about sparkles
For it is dark, painful, and tiring

It's hard, isn't it

By living alone i am escaping a haunted house. to leave is to be spat out undigested, a bone picked clean of meat but spared the marrow. it was always me who refused to be easily swallowed. it was always you who hated that.
We both know this haunting didn’t seep out from the walls, it was set in every room. (you made sure of that.) in such a space, articles of comfort are more unpleasant than bare walls - far worse than nothingness, they are marks of you. it is true you have built a home. but it is not my home.
Your haunting is pristine, white walls and tasteful furniture. beautiful but unwilling to be dwelt in. in polished mirrors, everyone is dirt. at least a gutted, rotting place could have been somewhere someone like me was loved, some long time ago. even claimed by mould and time such a house is less of a haunting than any space shared with you. at least i can imagine those crumbling walls as having once been the pillars of a life. at least among them i am clean.
if you are a leech, i am water, part of blood but never enough, you consume more than i alone can give you. you consume more than i would part with, even if i could.
if a home with you is a haunting, a house alone is a half dug grave.
but at least theres work left to do.
at least i wont be rotting alongside you.

The piano sounds so much more sombre
When I write my feelings on paper
I only noticed it few months ago
When I actually started doing so
I wanted to be heard
I was in pain, an injured bird
I wanted to be heard
But never was
Then, I started writing
And I was happy
From the mere realization that I exist
That my happiness, sadness and everything betwixt,
Mattered, and could be heard
And so I wrote,
And imagined, and thought,
Got lost in past, and creating stories
learned about myself,
and others and lovers
It helped me to be heard
The love, the madness, the pain, the anger
I put in every word
And so I was heard
Maybe in the future I will return,
come back again
And continue the journey, started by the younger me
lost in thoughts sitting in a train