Why do I find guilt,
to find beauty in myself?
Why is a fleeting admiration of my own thighs,
followed quickly by regret?
What is it that drags me into self-loathing,
if ever I stop to appreciate the colour of my eyes?
What fuels the ghosts that haunt me,
for my time in the mirror?
How come, I can encourage self-love,
yet derail if I dare to like myself?