I'm fashionably late to loving myself

quagmire

simplicity of endearment, I never learnt
though, frequent confrontation I held
with confined sense of disgust and shame
I walk with shoulders hunched, uninvolved.

hated my own essence;
for the failure of being offered love.
"oh, you couldn't lure them?
or you weren't loveable."
I've found it's their depravity not mine;
the understanding love I wasn't offered.

I'd be loved even when I'm jackshit nothing,
even when I fail,
even when I stumble,
even when I'm in trouble, I'm loved.
who would tell me all of this?
if not you.

but I wont trap you,
or anyone for that record,
it's against my ethics.
with apologies not uttered,
and appreciations not delivered,
I weigh down on myself too harsh.

the power over any man I've had was by a poison ring.
the circle of a wildflower crown,
the sphere of a soap bubble,
and the illusion of a sweet circle.

everything that I eat, birthed at the altar,
made of mud; what a sweet sculpture.
impulsive, compliant, indulging on high ends,
I've grown and grown through trials & pain,
I've shed skin off my fingers every while and again.

why have I no ointment on my wounds,
why aren't my torn clothes mended,
why does my bowl still have holes,
now, all the affection poured sieves through.
that I am left with is the same hunger,
that I had first started with.