Now that I’m not holding myself back, what else are my hands capable of?

If I ever hate myself, it’s because others taught me.

I know how to feel wrong, but I can barely give a reason.

Justification is for everyone else but me. 

I’m 30 & love myself enough not to starve. I stay active & amidst the soreness, I find relief. 

Acceptance is a type of soreness good friends tell me to breathe through.

Shame & narcissism are strains of the same virus, you know that, right?

They cannot live without attaching to something. They cannot grow without a way of leeching.

If you love yourself too much or not enough, the imbalance can kill you.

My goal is to be mediocre in self-love. We are so afraid of being mediocre in America, though most of us are, but we refuse to accept it. 

How revolutionary it would be to be content at feeling enough.

In public places, I can’t stop moving my feet.
I moved back in with my parents & I feel no shame. I feel safe & I mind my business.

I find a home in my own body & my legs aren’t running anymore; they’re building.

Privacy is of the utmost importance when it comes to reconstruction of identity.

Or maybe reconstruction isn’t the word if my personal identity was never constructed in the first place.

I am a chimera of all my friends’ opinions; I wanna isolate & figure out who I am without the whispering
Or shouting
Or guiding cadence

Silence: my best friend after decades of being the nightmare.