I do not love myself in the gentle, healing way that poets recommend; I love myself obsessively, almost violently, as if my existence alone demands admiration. I admire my flaws as if they were deliberate masterpieces, and Iljustify every mistake as proof of my uniqueness. The world, to me, is not a place of equals, but a stage built to reflect my image back at me, distorted or perfected depending on my mood. I do not seek validation because Ihave crowned myself the final judge, the final truth, and the final obsession. My self-love is not peace it is hunger, it is control, it is the quiet belief that I deserve more simply because l am me.