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.
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.
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.