self love

self love

self love

I repeat

looking into 

the bathroom mirror.

 

 

staring into

cold eyes 

that are

not my own,

feeling other skin 

that covers someone else’s bones.

this cannot be me.

but somehow,

someway,

it is.

 

 

A viscious 

bloody

never-ending 

terrible war.

a war within myself

that I will surely

never win.

I could pray,

(and I do)

I could wish,

(and I do) 

I could cry, 

(and I do) 

that this war will end,

that I can live

happily as me,

with no more

skipped meals

crying outbursts

or depressive episodes.

But,

there is no

cathartic resolution

that brings

the ultimate feeling 

of inner peace.

There is only despondency.

 

 

To me, 

self love is as

sleep for the helpless insomniac

or as

precious gold for the rugged miner.

It is

a snake hoping for legs

and 

a fish yearning for wings.

Yet, here I stand, 

in a sea of impossibility,

hoping against hope 

that I will find

freedom.