I think a lot about that one summer
the one three years ago
the one I so naively hoped would heal all the wounds and I would never have to deal with the things I had been battling with ever again
but somehow the demons always find their way back in
somehow the fall had come sooner than it was supposed to and it got the worst of me
september always gets the worst of me
I suppose I don't dare to trust myself to even for a second think that it's getting better ever since then
because every time I do I end up failing myself
this is the part where my therapist would say
this is where the roots of your self-hatred lie
those roots are ones of an ancient oak tree
tall and brooding and strong
and I am that crooked mountain ash rotting in its scary shadow
those sappy self-love quotes I see everywhere online have never saved anyone's life
but they're doing a better job at it than my parents or teachers ever did
