when I used to look in the mirror,

I saw you as a temple;

something to worship and respect

in the only way I knew how.

but I forgot that the only way I knew how would mean

burning you to the ground.

and burn you did —

ribs jutting out, thighs lined in scars —

a shell of a human, what used to be.

“dinner?”

I can’t. I didn’t run enough miles.

“it’s so hot, I don’t know how you’re in jeans.”

you wouldn’t want to see the bandages.

“you look exhausted…”

I haven’t slept in three days.

when I used to look in the mirror, I saw you as a temple,

but I see a different reflection now.

I am a forest,

I am growing,

I am healing.

I’ve got wildflowers blooming in the darkest parts of my mind,

you’ve got a brighter sense about you.

“dinner?”

I’ve been wanting to try that new Indian place downtown.

“those shorts look  so good on you!”

my scars tell a story I am no longer ashamed to tell.

“you look so much more alive, fresh faced.”

I guess that happens when you put your demons to sleep.

when I look at you in the mirror,

I want to apologize.

I am sorry for loving others the way I should have loved you always.

 

— a letter to my body/my mind. 

 

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