Loving yourself has never been a straight line.
It is a winding mountain path, studded with the shards of that mirror you smashed,
because killing your reflection was as close as you could get
to killing the real thing.

Loving yourself has never been a straight line.
It is the curves the road in the dead of winter,
when the skidding of your tires across the ice felt more like
flying than anything else,
and warning signs on your dashboard lit up like candles in the dark, like something sweet enough
to place onto your tongue and let melt.

Loving yourself has never been a straight line.
It is the endless of branches of the veins in the hearts of others.
You tried to reach inside their chests and
place your hands where they could never be torn away,
but you always came up empty, left with the gaping hole of a failed transplant,
nothing to show for your efforts but
blood on your fingers
that blackened as it dried.

Loving myself has never been a straight line, but it is something I have endured.
I will now pray to the holy temple that lies under my skin,
and my hair will fall across my cheeks
like the hands of lovers that once touched my face as I slept.
I will pick up all the glass I can find to put back together the only reflection I will ever have and I will let myself cry when the broken pieces cut my palms because
it
is
so
beautiful

that I am alive to bleed.