literature

You don't know the meaning

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Literature Text

“I love myself, more than any lover
could.”


they laugh, but this is no joke


my shaking knees do not smile,


the sweat on my palms do not smell
sweet.


I have been born in
this skin,


and have loved it
whole heartedly,


watched it grow,
and play


nurturing
it, neglecting it


I know the sent of my skin, and every
follicle


of each hair which grows wild,


soft and familiar, like the forests of
home.





I love the wrinkles, and dimples,


the great mass of my flesh.


My fingers play across it


as a child would trace her fingers over


the body of a lake, or the frost on the
window


during a cool morning.





I speak in tongues, in dreams, and
images


that no other could hope to know.


I walk my mind in summer afternoons,


and nights on a lonely beaches.


I imagine,


all the ugly and silly,


stupid, mis-informed,


wonderful, fanciful,


and self-destructive blurrs;


because they are all beautiful,


and all my own.





I love myself, even when I am unfair


even when I am wrong, and selfish, and
angry.


Even when I wish to tear at my hair


and skin until I'm a harmless mass of
calcium and iron,


Even when I heave under the scale of
things


so much larger than this,


there is a voice in my heart that
says:
no.


You are a daughter of dying stars


and You are stronger than the trees
you love


and You are not perfect


and I love you.


and I forgive you.





So tell me stranger


who are you,


who are you to say
the word “love” to me?





and have loved it
whole heartedly,


watched it grow,
and play


nurturing it,
neglecting it


trusting
it.




...
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