i did self-hate by the books (so why do i love myself?)

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myself alone. Before I discovered the art of self-harm. Before the world outside was able to commit the crime of getting its hands on me. Before I had a score to settle with myself. I was baited into being vandalized.</p><p id="2f5b">You see, I was supposed to be beautiful.</p><p id="45f7">People who “knew” what beauty was were able to convince me that I didn’t have it. And I went blind with self-doubt. I couldn’t find it, all that beauty, layered beneath beauty standards. I couldn’t afford cosmetic surgery but I could afford ink and diamonds. I buried myself beneath art and metal.</p><p id="6bfe">That’s how self-harm became a habit.</p><p id="8296">And I became a walking canvas of pain, hidden in plain sight. A beautiful display of scars. Masterpieces cover my body like stained glass; now I shatter when I walk past mirrors. I was defaced. Because no one told me that I had already been what I was trying to be.</p><p id="ff0d">It was a sick plot twist of ironic descent.</p><p id="3fd3

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">Nobody told me that one day… I was gonna love myself, anyway. So I covered myself to be bare. Wounded myself to feel healed. I did a lot of bad things to feel good. My natural beauty has been mutilated by a rebellious graffiti artist. Because no one told me that self-hate is a passing phase. Do you know how it feels to miss your body while still being in it?</p><div id="231b" class="link-block"> <a href="https://medium.com/@sincerelylc/list/6a78071090a1"> <div> <div> <h2>Prose Poetry by Linda Sharp</h2> <div><h3>Edit description</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*baaf000031ad1c6dfd3417047de25f368bbd1ad8.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><p id="3600">© Linda Sharp 2023. All Rights Reserved.</p></article></body>

prose poetry

I did everything right.

I colored my body in ink; impaled my flesh with jewels. I took the culture out of my hair. I even let the toilet do the digesting. This was me, you know, “fixing” my flaws. I did self-hate by the books. So why do I love myself? Why have I been looking into the mirror? Longing?

For the days when I was avoidant enough to leave myself alone. Before I discovered the art of self-harm. Before the world outside was able to commit the crime of getting its hands on me. Before I had a score to settle with myself. I was baited into being vandalized.

You see, I was supposed to be beautiful.

People who “knew” what beauty was were able to convince me that I didn’t have it. And I went blind with self-doubt. I couldn’t find it, all that beauty, layered beneath beauty standards. I couldn’t afford cosmetic surgery but I could afford ink and diamonds. I buried myself beneath art and metal.

That’s how self-harm became a habit.

And I became a walking canvas of pain, hidden in plain sight. A beautiful display of scars. Masterpieces cover my body like stained glass; now I shatter when I walk past mirrors. I was defaced. Because no one told me that I had already been what I was trying to be.

It was a sick plot twist of ironic descent.

Nobody told me that one day… I was gonna love myself, anyway. So I covered myself to be bare. Wounded myself to feel healed. I did a lot of bad things to feel good. My natural beauty has been mutilated by a rebellious graffiti artist. Because no one told me that self-hate is a passing phase. Do you know how it feels to miss your body while still being in it?