method not objected

This is not a pompous sermon about self-love, just one of, “I love myself today and that’s good enough.”

A body is sacred, but it’s also just flesh.

We are born, we do the “life” thing, then we die.

This sacred flesh will burn or rot, depending on your individual funeral arrangements, and all you’ll be remembered for will be up to you to leave behind.

Ah yes, it all sounds so fucking self-indulgent, doesn’t it?

So typical.


I get it.

I should love myself.

But what if I don’t?

What if I am truly disgusted with myself?

What then?

What if I enjoy it, this hate?

Who wants happiness anyway, sounds boring.

I’m sexier with some sadness.

No one wants my smile, I look better with tears rolling down my cheeks, making a small pool on my philtrum to slurp on.



I can cry for days, weeks, years, decades, seconds…

I was born crying.

I cried in the shower, in the lakes and waterfalls in the home country, on volcano hikes, in my bed, at church, at school and in my sleep. In the lap of my abuser.

Now, I cry in the city, in it’s congested streets, freeways, walks to the corner store, walks around town, on the roof, in my bed, in parking lots, on my way to work, on my way back from work.

By the time I get to work sometimes, my makeup is smeared and my signature smokey eye is complete. It’s part of the ritual.

It also helps that I don’t sleep. The pretty purple-ish under eye effect that insomnia brings saves me from having to buy eyeshadows.

It’s nice being sad.

It comes with underlining benefits that save me money and time spent doing something other than crying.

I have so many things to be sad about.

So so many.

So so so many.

I’d list them, but it’d just make me sad.

Mostly, I have scars.

Deep deep scars.

Yes, emotional ones, but the ones I speak of are literal.

Embarrassing scars.

Sad scars.

Some, self-inflicted, some hereditary, some from an illness that has plagued me since I started bleeding at age 9.

I feel monstrous.

Like a beast.

I feel them under my clothes.

As I talk.

As I fuck.

When I smile.

I am aware of them every second of every day.

I can taste them.

I am mostly reminded of them when I see a pretty face, a beautiful face, a gorgeous face.

I am reminded that underneath my smile, is a sadness that lives on my topography.

A sadness so apparent I hide it.

A sadness that lives in the tone of my laughter.

In the bottoms of my feet.

In my scalp.

But, love always finds me.

Love always comes.

Sometimes disguised as a Mormon missionary.

A Navajo Indian from New Mexico.

A stray dog I named Santiago.

My lovers.

My 3rd grade teacher who wanted to adopt me so he could give me a better life than he thought my parents could provide.

Love always finds me.

I just don’t know how to keep it.

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