A Woman With Wounds
The therapist mentioned that it was iconic how the love I gave, portrayed, encompassed, and gave out, was within. Unable to be reciprocated to the self. Unable to be given to the self. Unable to be administered. Unable to even be a thought. A laugh, as if the struggle for self-love was a joke.
Chuckling, one cries at home. Two spectrums of emotion. Two spectrums of what to feel. Which one do I follow?
One cannot love another until one loves themselves. This has been told. Yet, I disagree. When this is said, I get to laugh.
My pleasure.
There is sheer rememberance in the hatred I endured on myself at a young age. It continued, and continued; to the point of no longer wanting to open the eyes. The point where individuals have pushed you down too far, there is no longer rope, nor a hand to lift or assist. If one cuts, will there be enough gravity to let one go?
A pillow case tied around, like the rope of the swings from childhood. A flashback. Hearing the heart pound and pound in the ears, a warning drum, that soon fades. Writing with smeared blood upon the pages, immense dedication. Everything beautiful has a consequence.
When I mentioned that loving you almost makes life worth it, I was not joking. When I tell you that loving you almost makes me forget the hatred I feel about myself…
