I'm a mess. I know I am.
It's only recent though, I promise.
It's only temporary, maybe.
Recently, I've allowed myself to feel the weight
of my depression and anxiety
amplified by the existence of the life
I pushed out of me nine months ago.
I want to love myself.
Really, I do.
Maybe.
I promise, it's only temporary.
But when you're raised to see the faults in your existence,
not just physical, because, let's be honest,
faults and flaws are never skin deep.
I found perfection in my skin, my weight
I smiled when I needed, nodded when I needed.
But when you're raised to believe that you are imperfect,
that's all you know.
You wear self-destruction like a badge of honour.
I'm a mess. Yes.
But I'm beautiful, no?