get a good long look

I think earnestness is just about all I have in writing. I could write a thousand words–all ironic–I don’t, though. Other people do that better than I ever will. 

I’m good at earnestness, and I’m cool with that. See, I like the person that I am. I mean it, too. Myself–not painted or promised or particularly beautiful–is someone I’ve come to like better.

The ability to love oneself though. Shit, game over. If I love myself, I don’t have to lay palms up with some kind of pathetic hope. I don’t. Because unpainted unpromised, fuck all.

Thing is, I am not afraid of being alone, I am afraid of being mistaken for someone who does not like herself–someone who lives in her body, only, instead of her mind–the mind that writes to you. The mind that tells you it’ll be okay because I have to believe it, and do. 

And it will be okay. This true thing doesn’t feel possible, but it is. And to get a good long look at that–to really see it–that’s the end, really. An impossible, true thing. Like being inherently lovable. Like the shock of that. 

It is the end, really, of all the faces I give myself. It is the end of starving and the end of sleeplessness at my own hands and the end, thank fuck, of needing so badly to be someone beautiful before anything else. 

How exhausting. How incredibly boring. 

And hey, I’m not there. But I like myself enough to say so. That’s kinda hot, right?

If, dear reader, you are still reading, sorry for the sentimentality. Be it ovulation, or the warm weather, this is me right now. 

Oh well.

Love ya.