I'm fashionably late to loving myself

here the night cereus blooms

the night blended into a trance 

and my lucid fingers tried hard

holding on to anything it found

whether silk or shards

neither could I tear away nor withdraw

my eyes dripped in ecstatic numb

my vision dazed with sweetness

that rots my insides, leaving no trace

the enchantress had such a grip

I only noticed later how miserably I tripped

a sweet demise in the land of faes

devoid of pain or realization

but I crave the briny, the sour

I find solace in the acerbity of the truth,

the tartness in all that is real,

the bitter and the brash, it's all beautiful

I stayed put till the molasses washed off me

I stood up slowly and it drained down,

down the stream of ever-renewing consciousness;

of such purity that it purged all dirt

here the cereus blooms, once a year

under the moonlight, opening up freely,

people brush past the dim forest pathways

to witness its bloom before it shuts off entirely

it was one of a kind for sure, sweet, spiraling

but it's not what I desire, not what sets me free

I'm carried by the winds, off to seashores

to find shells, intricately made, concrete and real

the beauty of which never wears off

regardless of how many times the water washes over it

I can gaze in awe,  aware that the same beauty exists within me,

reminding me that I'm complete in myself, in no way scarce.