sad multifandome (English)

Love can not heal me

I had a therapist tell me once, it was ironic how much love I gave out, Cause I didn't give much to myself. She laughed like self love was a sick joke, I chuckled... and cried at home. I'd had someone tell me once, I could not love anyone else until I learned to love myself.

This time I got to laugh, this time the sick joke was mine, It was me. I might as well wait forever, I remember hating myself at the age of seven, journals filled to the brim, with criticisms by eight I had enough pages to stitch them. Into wings, to fly close enough to the sun, to see my tears turn to steam.
Felt the wax burn on my Shoulders, and mild into thick skin.

I was nine when I wanted to die, thirteen when I found a solution, figured if I could cut my legs enough, gravity would let me go. When it didn't I tied a pillowcase around my neck, twisting like the rope swings I knew so well from childhood. Hear my heartbeat pound in my ears, like a warning drum then fade.

I'd almost convinced myself I'd done it, when I started writing. I smeared my blood on every page, to remind myself that everything beautiful has a consequence. I hoped to stall the clouding long enough to give myself to the craft, and let myself go. I have died so many times, so when I told you, that loving you almost makes life worth it i was not joking. When I tell you, that living you almost makes me forget how much I hate myself, it is not poetry.

Loving you is taking all the love, I could never give myself and putting it to good use, it is reminding myself that if someone can love a dying thing this way, can hold the ** of my body, and give thanks for the way it holds back.
If someone can kiss the scars, administer the pills, absorbed the bad days, and wake up smiling next to me, then I can try to breathe again.

Cause self love dose not always come first, or second, or even ever, let your love be the guard rail on the ledge, be the drawers that hide all the harps things. Be the body that carries my collapsed frame, into bed , be the flowers you bought. Cause even thought they are dying to, they still dance.

Love will not heal me. Will not wipe my slate of a body clean, I will always be a workmen of wounds. A ** neck, and melted skin.
Love will not heal me but it will hold my hand, if I ever heal myself. And maybe teach me a joke. That I can stay alive long enough to laugh at, I love you, enough to want to love myself too.