I don’t like to show the whole;
So I show the fragments instead.
I control the angle,
The body part(s) on display,
The filter… if I use one at all–
And I might,
If my insecurity is showing.
I have days,
Too many to count,
When I hate myself wholeheartedly…
Every fucking centimetre…
And I feel that it would be better
If I actually were only the fragments I choose to show,
Rather than the disappointing whole.
It’s just as well–
I can never quite capture the all of me anyway
She is elusive and blurry,
And doesn’t stand still
Long enough to be caught.
Self-love is a constant struggle of Sisyphus… pushing that motherfucking dung ball up a hill, then, after my hands and feet lose purchase, watching it roll the fuck back down… again….
Will I ever feel good enough for me?
And it will continue to be a battle.
If it weren’t, there would be
And no growth.
So I bear the shards of the pain and pleasure of self-actualization
In equal measure.
With grinding teeth
And gasping breaths
And tears that brand my cheeks
In bloody streaks,
I bear the fragments
And the whole of me.