The Guilt of Self-love

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?


How do they do that?

Your eyes

Picking the locks of my mind

Crumbling the walls that the years built

Warding off the demons that lay beyond them

Transforming me into something new

Once I was a caterpillar, creeping cautiously

Now, something content and beautiful

A butterfly, beautiful enough to be loved

And to love unwavering

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