i was seven when i knew what it was to hate. to hate my sister for cutting all the hair off of the dolls and carving my name onto walls and passing the blame. i knew to scream when a stranger touched me i knew to clench my fists and fight when someone hurt me
and then i grew
more than double the age and more than double the size and more than double the hate which now has projected itself off of the mirror and back onto myself like light beams which settle like spotlights on every flaw and every curve and every not-curve and scar and lumps and bumps and gap and line. my fists fall lamely at my sides because what good is a punch which would cause more pain and more damage than what's already grown , we have to pull weeds out by the roots not kick them when we walk by . i can still kick and punch and cut and scream but what good is all the hurting and anger when my own enemy is myself. when the epitome of all i despise is laying beneath the skin which holds me captive like a rusted cage with no door, why bother trying to find a way out. to scream when a stranger touches me would mean to scream every time my hands brushed past my own thighs i don't know myself yet i know to hate.
but a little bit of sugar can do wonders to a bad cup of tea. and a hug with intention can relax a whole body and calm a mind. when my head was
too heavy for my shoulders you lifted my chin with one finger , and spoke words which floated like flower petals in the wind, which settled atop my head and melted into me. you smiled in a way that shone so brilliantly that my clouds reflected with silver linings again. I have lost the ability to love myself , but to borrow it from you sometimes is enough for me to stay a little longer.
